May 02, 2013

Over the weekend, I went to Chicago to visit my high school building one last time. It'll be a K-12 magnet school come fall. Samantha and I went together. It was bittersweet.

We ran through the halls taking photos everywhere we could. Classrooms, locker rooms, library, cafeteria, and especially the theater where I spent a large chunk of my teenage years. We poked around backstage and found hundreds of scribbles from thespians past, including ours.

"Fiddler on the Roof" was my first musical. I remember being homebound with a cold the weekend before auditions my freshman year, begging my father to raid every Blockbuster on the south side for a VHS tape so I could walk through the story. I landed a spot in the chorus, and it changed my life. Through acting, I made friends, built confidence, scored a kiss or two (offstage, not on) and channeled my inner rock star.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, it's also how I met my brother-in-law. But Samantha knew. The green marker says "Samantha loves Dan 4ever."

This is Jason, who longtime readers may remember as my friend from Jerry Springer. Maria was an all-girls school, so technically he's not an alum, but he might as well be. He was in a gazillion of our plays. I met him during "Fiddler" and we were thick as thieves the next few years. These days he's busy CEOing and performing around the world, so our physical paths don't cross much, but when they do, we don't miss a beat. What a happy coincidence to be home at the same time.

Thinking about high school, wearing those years on me like a blanket all weekend, it's been hard not to feel a little sad. How can they be so far away? And why are they so easy to slip back on?

I have wonderful memories of being a teenager. I remember first kisses, senior prom, summer jobs, creative writing endeavors and all-nighters with friends as vividly as my wedding and my children's births. But I remember the hard times, too. Clinging to intimacy in relationships when all else failed; waiting for phone calls and first moves that never happened; feeling heartsick and trapped, overwhelmed by emotions for guys, peers, my parents and God. It's gutting to lose faith in someone, or fight for independence and lose, and feel so damn stuck.

Memories, like the corners of my mind...

The reunion also served as a catalyst for reflecting on 'lil Frema's goals and dreams and asking how the grown-up version measures up. At 18, the sky was the limit.

I'm not sure how I was going to afford my "fancy downtown apartment" or "cute little zippy thing" on a campus minister's salary. Prob'ly with the sales of my Great American Novel, which didn't earn a mention in my autobiographical pages but was echoed in almost every classmate's inscription.

So, how am I doing?

Amazing husband. Beautiful children. Education and career. Health and a roof over my head. Some people spend their whole lives praying for a fraction of what I have. I wasn't evolved enough to ask for those things at 18, but believe you me, 'lil Frema, you sure as hell wanted them.

I'm okay with the campus minister gig not coming full circle and living my faith in a different way. I'm even okay that I haven't written my book (YET). But I am greedy. This life is wonderful, but it's not enough. I can feel in my bones I should be doing something bigger. Making waves somehow. That I'm capable of more.

But unlike reflecting on high school, this realization doesn't make me sad. Instead, I'm excited. I have a lot of work to do. It's time to cut the bullshit and dig my heels in.

January 27, 2012

This week I came across a handful of blog posts that turned my blood cold. They were uncomfortable to read and left me squirming in my chair, upset, confused, embarrassed. No longer sure what to think of experiences I made peace with years ago.

The rape article was the hardest to get through, but it was a line in Liz's post in her account of a sexual assault that brought me to the computer. A simple sentence, stripped of layers, absent of clever innuendo or metaphors, but powerful nonetheless.

I remember that at 17, the idea of waking parents seemed somehow worse than anything.

Let me be clear. I have never been raped. But as a young woman, GOD did that general sentiment ring true for me.

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When I was 17, I landed a job at a laid-back mom-and-pop video store in my neighborhood, a job I chased after for an entire year because I loved the idea of getting paid to watch movies, do my homework, and hang out with friends twelve hours a week. The owner put me off until I was a senior in high school because the store had a...shall we say...robust adult section, and I was underage. But I was an ambitious 17-year-old, and I had excellent references, so it was only a matter of time before I was collecting late fees from local enthusiasts for titles like Hein*feld and Wednesday is Hump Day.

On one of my last nights there before leaving for college, I was closing with "Frank," a middle-aged guy with two kids and a day job as a paralegal. He was normally a pleasure to be around, very helpful and kind - he always gave me a ride when we closed, saving me a ten-minute walk home. On that night, we were talking and laughing as usual, but on this night Frank had a few beers on our shift. I don't know that this would have been discouraged by the owner, exactly, since he was known to have a can of something in plain sight of customers while balancing the books, but it was a first for Frank, and you could tell he was buzzing. As the night went on, he became looser with his tongue, and he kept saying how nice and pretty I was; next thing I knew, he was approaching me from the back and wrapping his arms around me in a close hug.

I was taken off guard; what the hell did I know about inappropriate? It's not like he was grabbing at the waistband of my pants or even trying to kiss me. And it was over as quickly as it began, so I don't remember how I acted in the moment aside from making some lame joke and sliding out of his arms. He was such a nice guy, after all, and not himself from the beer, and he still had to drive me home. Because of course I let him drive me home.

I reflect on this now, and I'm angry. I'm angry that a grown man thought it was okay to throw a few back, on the clock, in the presence of a teenager who thought she could work four hours without having someone's hands on her hips. But I'm also so sad for the girl who felt that she had to act like it didn't happen, who felt obligated to get in the car with him, EVEN THOUGH HE'D BEEN DRINKING, because she didn't want to be rude, and who made light of the whole thing when he called to apologize the next day. (See? Such a nice guy.)

Sometimes, Breain, it's okay to be impolite.

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When I was 20, I had sex when I didn't want to. He was older, and I was intoxicated with the attention. In previous conversations, I had told him I wanted to wait, but in the moment, I never said no. When it was over, I didn't know how to react except roll over and cry. All he could do was apologize for misinterpreting my body language. I could see that he meant it. I knew he felt terrible.

If I would have pushed him off me, said WAIT, STOP, I'M NOT READY YET, I know he would've done it. But we'd been fooling around night after night for almost two weeks, and I sure did like him a lot, and I didn't know how to switch gears. How do you talk through such an intense situation when you're physically trying to recover from it? Literally catching your breath, pulling an arm through a shirt sleeve, waiting for your half-asleep eyes to adjust to the light? And that's the problem, I guess. I was more concerned with the awkwardness of the after, with the proverbial waking of the parents, than the hurt I would feel from the during.

He and I went on to date for almost a year, and nothing about our relationship was coersive or forced or any of the adjectives typically used to describe a violent situation. He is even someone I call a friend today. Looking at that one night, though, from the perspective of a grown woman with a daughter of her own, I wish I hadn't cared about the after. I wish I'd been strong enough to say no.

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The posts I linked to at the start of this entry describe ecounters twenty times more heartbreaking and terrifying than mine. But that's what drew me to share. It's so easy to write off those experiences we believe to be less than someone else's. But not every incident is that black and white, and there is equal value in talking about the gray. I don't want the women in my life thinking they ever have to tolerate the less than. And I hope with all my heart Kara never gives a thought to waking me up.

January 20, 2010

What started as a "Hey, that looks like fun!" exercise gradually morphed into a "What a fantastic opportunity to document evey single detail of the last ten years" beast requiring hours of photo-searching and link-building. And each time I remember something new, I have to come back here and add it. I've already updated this entry three times since publishing it in the wee hours of the morning. Way to kill a light-hearted exercise, Frema.

Let's get this show on the road.

2000Middle of sophomore year of college. Took advantage of Bacon Thursdays in the school cafeteria. Served as features editor of the biweekly newspaper and editor of the literary magazine. Joined the mock trial team and took my first plane ride since toddlerhood for a regional competition in Salt Lake City. Received my first cell phone as a birthday present, a pay-as-you-go kind that was bigger than my hand. Learned how to crochet from a dear friend. Wore my side bangs ridiculously long. Had what I now know to be my last fling with Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, before meeting my next beau, Mike, during a month-long stint at Waldenbooks. Balanced the rest of my summer working hours at Navy Pier's Popcorn Palace and the Sam Goody in Water Tower Place in downtown Chicago, where celebrities would often make spontaneous appearances in the food court except on my lunch hour. Had my first car accident with my first car, a 1993 Oldsmobile Cutlass, in front of a Krispy Kreme because I had yet to master the delicate art of merging.

Received my first computer. Started junior year. Sister Samantha began her freshman year at Saint Joe. Waffled on my course of study (English was always on my radar, but I was super-ambitious and determined to get the most out of my loans by taking on a second major. Indecision eventually led to a minor in journalism.) Spent countless weekends in Chicago visiting Mike and ignoring everyone else. Scored the first of two speeding tickets driving back to campus from his apartment. Attended Molly and Kevin's wedding. My grandmother - my mother's mother who had lived downstairs from my family for the past ten years - passed away. Interviewed for an internship with my college town's daily newspaper and met Luke for the first time. Developed instant crush.

2001Celebrated 21st birthday with Mike and his friends at a seventies and eighties dance club and drank my first martini. Broke up with Mike at the beginning of spring break but reunited with him by week's end. Broke up with him for good before the month was out. Attended a Kairos retreat through Saint Joe with Samantha. Served as co-chair for Saint Joe's Relay for Life team. Bought Luke in a charity bachelor auction and soon after began dating. Had my first delicious taste of spinach and artichoke dip. Straightened my hair consistently, which led to countless burn marks on my forehead. Earned second speeding ticket and the suspension of my license for the duration of the summer, which meant Luke and I spent May through July driving back and forth from his apartment to the South Shore train station for weekend visits. That wasn't time-consuming at all!

Managed summer communications internship while continuing to work for the Palace. Discovered Liz Phair, thanks to a mixed tape from Luke. Saw Aerosmith and Dave Matthews Band in concert. Began senior year. Accepted internship with Saint Joe's publications and media relations department and wrote tons of feature articles and press releases for the magazine and Web site. Fell hard for Harry Potter. Started researching graduate schools and thinking about life after graduation.

2002Organized my biggest PR event for Saint Joe while still an intern, a campus showing of American History X during African American History Month and arranging a Q&A with Frank Meeink, who inspired the movie. Graduated from college. Our family dog, Gyver, was put to sleep the day before the ceremony, unbeknownst to me until I came home. Started my first full-time job as Saint Joe's publications and media relations director and agreed to supervise a friend of mine, which in hindsight was a huge mistake (the management role, not the job itself) but at least came with a sweet offer to live on campus for free. Bought my first new car eight seconds later, a beautiful Chevy Cavalier.

Took first overnight with Luke at Brown County State Park here in Indiana. Went on the first of two whitewater rafting trips with Saint Joe. Started classes in DePaul University's literary writing MA program. Put on an extra fifteen pounds as a result of restauranting with Luke, spending ten hours a day behind a desk, and sustaining myself on value meals, pub cheeseburgers, and blizzards. My family adopted our next dog right before Christmas, another German shepherd, a fiesty puppy named Styx.

2003Joined Weight Watchers and lost seventeen pounds. Abandoned campus life to rent a house with a friend in town. Took and passed a three-hour qualifying exam in between trimesters. Went on my second whitewater rafting trip, this time with Luke and Samantha in tow. Visited a ton of state parks with Luke. Joined a writers' group in Rensselaer. Took an autobiography class at DePaul and learned about blogging. Started my first blog and updated it three times a week as part of a class assignment. Spent lots of money at New York and Company, The Limited, Victoria's Secret, and Bakers, courtesy of graduate school loan money. (Bad Frema!)

Got into watching The Nanny reruns with my mother on Lifetime on the days I was in Chicago for class. Dabbled in cooking with a pumpkin pie (bland), sweet potatoes (lumpy), and a lemon torte (oddly shaped). Moved out of my rental house and into my very own apartment, a charming one-bedroom barely 450 square feet but with a low, low price tag of $220 a month. Spent Christmas vacation happily painting my living room, kitchen, and bathroom.

2004Surprised Luke with a two-night bed-and-breakfast getaway in honor of his thirtieth birthday. Agreed to highlights for the first time. Introduced to Clinique through my coworker and coached on the importance of eye shadow primer. Started my first Blogger blog. Ate lunch at home more often and consequently fell into watching All My Children for the first time since my teen years. Made chicken and spaghetti. Perfected my spinach dip. Watched my sister Ryan graduate from eighth grade and brother Geo receive his junior class ring. Witnessed as Samantha was crowned Ms. Puma (my friend Jason acting as emcee for the event) accepted her elementary education degree, and embarked on a ten-day trip to Tanzania, Africa, with the college's Habitat for Humanity chapter. Participated in my own Habitat trip to Texas with Luke during Saint Joe's spring break for the magzine's spring cover story.

Even with all the wonderful things that happened that year, I wasn't sorry to see 2008 come to an end. Never underestimate the difficulty of first-year parenting combined with a surprise second pregnancy and the joy that is first-time home buying. I've never felt less grounded or so not myself in all my life.

So, there you have it, the highlights of my twenties, mostly containing life-changing events, fundamental self-discovery, and heaping doses of self-doubt. Here's to a decade of growing more comfortable in my own skin (thankfully this has already started) and pushing limits I haven't even dreamed of yet.

October 09, 2008

What else could I possibly feel after tuning in to an easy-listening radio station and hearing Sisters With Voices on my way to work?

The year was 1993; I was thirteen and on the cusp of starting eighth grade when their first single came out. I remember one of The Sisters had scary-long finger nails, but they weren't enough to deter me from buying the cassette from Venture (formerly Zayre's, currently non-existent) with my hard-earned baby-sitting money. Yes, I'm well aware that was fifteen years ago, but still, isn't it a tad premature to lump the girls in with the likes of Phil Collins and John Mellencamp?

That said, the following songs were just downloaded from iTunes by a member of the Frema-Useless Clutter household. I'll let you guess which one.

In other Frema nerdiness, as I sort through my things and decide which items are worthy of storage space at the new house, I came across a few gems that might be of interest to some of you.

My apologies for the prime real estate given to the boobage and butt crack. I wasn't consciously trying to showcase that issue, and honestly, I'm kind of embarrassed about the oversight, but I'm too lazy to upload a new photo, so there you go.

My senior year in high school, I worked for a mom-and-pop video store minutes away from my house. Because it was so small, hiring was sparse, partly because you only needed one or two people per shift but also because the perks were so good nobody my age ever wanted to leave: no uniform, free movies, and you could do your homework on slow nights without fear of repercussion. It was every teenager's dream job, and the kids in my neighborhood knew it. Rich, the owner, was bombarded with requests for applications every day. I should know, because I pestered him every couple of months or so until one day I came in at just the right time and he hired me on the spot. He was a little concerned about my age; I was only 17 at the time, and there was a whole section of Adult Movies that needed constant restocking and supervision, but apparently that stopped being a problem because soon I found myself on the other side of the swinging doors, charged with reshelving such thought-provoking titles as Wet and Wild 5 and Wednesday is Hump Day.

Anyway, that job is the reason I learned about Kevin Smith and the brilliantness that is Clerks. And once I saw Clerks, Mallrats and Chasing Amy weren't far behind. By the time I left for college, I owned them all on VHS. There were posters, soundtracks, and screenplays, quizzes online to test my knowledge of dialogue (NERD!), and utterances of "Snootchie Bootchies!" more times than was appropriate for a person who didn't wear flannel clothing or spend free time dreaming up new characters for Dungeons and Dragons. But whatever, it was fun, and Kevin Smith was hella cool in college.

I didn't learn about the comic books until my second serious boyfriend. Mike gave me the above-pictured graphic novels after just a week of dating, and at that stage in my life, they were better than roses. I actually attended that year's Comic Con with him and his friends a few months later specifically to meet Kevin Smith, but Mike's BFF was an hour late picking us up, so by the time we got there the line had already been roped off, and I totally cried. I did get a comic signed by one of Kevin's cronies, though. I'm keeping that one.

This I bought after the release of Dogma, which I didn't enjoy as much as the other films (don't even get me started on Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back), but I love Jesus, and I loved Kevin Smith. Who could ask for anything more?

The comics and figurine were proudly displayed in my dorm room until I graduated, and they've survived all of my moves within the great Hoosier state. Now, eight years later, I think I'm finally ready to say good-bye. I considered donating them to Goodwill, but if it's possible, I'd love to give them to someone who I know will appreciate them. Plus, I'm afraid the Goodwill guys will take one look at the comics and laugh at me behind my back.

ANYWAY, my point is, are you interested? If not for yourself, perhaps for a friend? First person to call dibs wins.

(By using the phrase "first person," I'm assuming more than one of you a) know who Kevin Smith is and b) care enough about his movie memorabilia to want this stuff cluttering your home. Please don't make a fool out of me.)

Edited to add: Holy cow, you guys, I had no idea even one person would be interested, let alone four! Let me think more on how to give this stuff away.

May 16, 2008

Two weeks ago I went to my ten-year high school reunion. In the days leading up to what I believed would be a life-changing event, I tried to find time to write this really insightful piece about how much I loved high school and how those four years contributed to the person I am today and how grateful I was to attend an all-girls private school and how I never minded the uniforms because I didn't know how to dress myself and how much I appreciated being exposed to different cultural and religious backgrounds and how college was a slap in the face because more than half of the (white bread) student body was going on Mommy and Daddy's dime and how one of my friends drove around campus in a BMV she got as a graduation present while I peddled on a ten-speed bicycle that was stolen two months into my freshman year.

But then life got in the way, and also a new episode of Lost, so instead I decided to wait until the reunion had passed, allowing me to reflect on the relationships I formed as a teenager and which ones held up and which ones I outgrew and how at 18 my life goals included becoming a campus minister and driving a "sporty, zippy thing" (thank you, senior memory book) and maybe having children, "but I'm not making it a goal," and how never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined just how wonderful my life would be, not to mention how very proud I would be of my new family.

But then I actually WENT to the reunion, where only seven members of my class even bothered to show up, and it took the wind right out of my sails. I went on to cover a couple ofmore important topics, but still I came back to my reunion, determined to capture the essence of lil' Frema's character, to the point that I was afraid of posting anything else because my reunion, my reunion, my ten-year high school REUNION, I must do it justice, even if nobody cares about it but me.

And now? Now we are two weeks out, and the Frema-Useless Clutter household is currently engaged in the Great Aunt Flo Watch of 2008. Waxing poetic about the time I used to crank call toll-free counseling hotlines while waiting for the train will just have to wait.

Seriously, high school was special to me, and I will talk more about it someday. Until then, here is a picture of me standing at the bottom of a staircase next to blue and gold balloons. Pretend I said something witty, and then compliment my hair.

May 06, 2008

There is a buzz in Indiana today as Hoosiers flock to the polls; apparently the idea of actually influencing the selection of a party candidate has us all atwitter, because according to the local paper, turnout is more indicative of a general election than a little ole primary.

I hit my polling station on the way to work, and as I parked my car, I realized that for the first time in my entire life, I was truly excited to vote. In fact, it wasn't until very recently that politics meant anything to me at all.

Growing up, the whole function of government seemed a mystery not unlike the Bermuda Triangle. Sure, I took the Constitution test in eighth grade (and passed, lest you deem me a complete moron), and it was interesting enough, but when it came time to apply those principles to the world around me, it was too overwhelming. Hell, I could barely get a handle on basic algebra--there was no way I felt smart enough to talk about the merits of those running for office. My parents are loyal Republicans, and I have memories of watching the news with them at dinnertime, my father complaining about Mayor Daley's latest crime against the Chicago Fire Department, my mother nodding her head in agreement, and I remember feeling slighted on their behalf, too young to do anything but pretend I understood. When I was eight years old, I distinctly remember asking my mom why she didn't like Michael Dukakis and her telling me he wanted to kill babies. Kill babies! I was horrified. Lil' Frema had visions of men in uniforms lined up against a concrete wall, cradling newborns in their arms, each waiting to rid the planet of their vast uselessness.

(And here I must tell you writing that last paragraph was really uncomfortable for me, and in no way do I maintain a cavalier attitude towards abortion, but I'm assuming you all can appreciate my attempt to liven up a hazy childhood memory with the humor that accompanies a child's literal interpretation of a statement way beyond her level of understanding. You got that, right? We're still friends? Good.)

That political naiveté stayed with me into early adulthood. The first time I was eligible to vote was during the 2000 presidential election, but I was attending school in Indiana, and my permanent residence was Illinois, and I didn't know enough about the issues (or care enough, if we're being honest) to request an absentee ballot at the time. I did vote in 2004, at which time I knew enough about politics to label myself a Democrat, but I was only slightly put off by the results, not emotionally invested in John Kerry by any means, and certainly not heartbroken over the outcome.

But now I am different. Now I am motivated by our current state of affairs to want better for my family--specifically, for Kara. Now I follow the news to learn more about the goings-on in my city and surf the Web to become more educated on which candidates best meet my criteria for local and national leadership. Luke and I are currently rooting for Barack Obama, so much so that we seriously considered attending one of his rallies last night, but having a four-month-old baby who wants to be fed and changed and entertained on her terms, not ours, was reason enough to stay home (read: go to Applebee's, where we didn't have to wait in line for two hours and beg for admittance). But we listened to several of his radio interviews, and we watched last month's debate, and we talk constantly about how inspired we are by his vision and his ability to stay gracious under fire.

Also, his winning smile. So dreamy!

I like Barack and I cannot lie.

But this post isn't about who I voted for or why (so please don't flame me for my opinion, I have a "Delete" button and I'm not afraid to use it). It's about my new appreciation for the way leaders are chosen in this country and how grateful I am to have a voice in the process. This morning, I almost teared up reflecting on how lucky we Americans are to be able to elect our commander-in-chief (however imperfect the process may be) and support our favorite without fear of repercussion.

December 07, 2007

I know, I know, I'm not even past my due date yet, but I can feel it. The Braxton Hicks contractions that seemed to be coming so frequently two weeks ago seem to have disappeared almost completely, and I can practically hear my cervix taunting me with all the non-dilating it's probably doing. My 40-week appointment is scheduled for Tuesday at 9:45, and in my heart, I know that Luke and I will be there. Blah.

Who is your favorite artist, or artistic period, or work of art? What do you like about it? (I'm not judging, honest, it's just a question I always ask)

Oh, Lauren, I'm sure my response is going to diappoint you, because while I have a huge appreciation of art, my actual art knowledge is scant. I can tell you I love the Saturday Evening Post covers created by Norman Rockwell, which will be gracing my calendar for 2008, and there's a matted photograph of autumn leaves in my living room that I purchased at a local craft show a few years ago when I lived in Rensselaer and worked at Saint Joe. Other than that? I'm useless. I love the Post covers because of how well the images reflect all the coming-of-age situations that seem to happen in a typical American's life, and fall is my favorite season, so the leaves photo reminds of me crunching through parks in my hiking shoes with Luke, something we used to do all the time. That's one of the things I can't wait to do again in my non-pregnant state.

What is the book you most look forward to reading to Freka?

Now HERE'S a question I can get behind, mostly because I was a reading fool as a kid, and one of the biggest things that excites me about having a daughter is being able to share my favorite childhood and young adult books with her. Baby-sitters Club. Nancy Drew (both the original hardbacks and the paperback Nancy Drew Files). Sweet Valley High. Anything by Judy Blume and Paul Zindel. It's not that boys can't read these books, but do they? No, not usually. And even though I tried, I could never get into the Hardy Boys; they were only tolerable when teaming up with Nancy, Bess, and George in those random mystery thrillers that came out every few months.

Anyway, to answer the actual question, the book I'm most excited about reading to Freka right now is the comprehensive collection from Beatrix Potter. When I was a kid, one of my aunts gifted us the entire series of stories, and my sister Samantha and I had a blast going through the little books. My favorite at the time was The Story of a Fierce Bad Rabbit, mainly because he got his naughty little cotton tail shot off at the end.

Hell, yes, I have. The neon-green scooter I bought with money I received for making my First Communion back when I was nine years old, and I'm still pissed about it.

That scooter was a big deal. I already had a bike; Samantha and I had received matching pink bikes from my Nana for Christmas the year before, each with their own names etched into the handlebar padding (mine was Pink Taffy). But still, I wanted a scooter. Don't ask me why.

A week or two after my First Communion celebration, my father took me to Toys R Us, and I picked out said neon-green scooter. He put it together for me as soon as I got home, and I fell in love. Between that and the bike, my feet almost forgot what it felt like to make physical contact with the sidewalk. (We were NEVER allowed to ride in the street, and I'm still amazed when I see kids that do. My mother would've killed me.)

The poor thing didn't last through the summer.

My parents might say part of it was my fault for occasionally neglecting to store the scooter in the basement like I was supposed to every night before going to bed. Our apartment had fencing around the yard, and a gate, but it was that criss-cross wiring stuff that anyone could easily climb over. Apparently, the temptation of the scooter just sitting there next to our staircase was too great for one of the local sticky-fingers, and one morning, it was just gone. I never saw it again.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure they stole my bike, too. Couldn't you just cry a river for poor 'lil Frema?

November 25, 2007

For a while there, it looked like today's was going to be another bullshit entry--Luke and I woke this morning to find our wireless modem had no signal, and after a phone call to AT&T's tech support line, we learned it had indeed met its maker. At first we thought we'd have to wait a few days for a replacement and made plans to crash Luke's work (which is fewer than ten minutes away) and publish obligatory placeholder entries for NaBloPoMo, but since the modem had outlived the initial one-year warranty, we were free to hit to Best Buy and spend ninety dollars on a new one instead. Which we did, which is why I'm able to type at you from the work computer in my living room sated with Oreo pudding and Sara Lee cheesecake instead of an empty office building with no windows and probably no snacks.

Anyway, today was busier than yesterday--there was church to attend, Mexican food to feast on, errands to run, computers to reconfigure, and a little napping on the couch to do in between reading pages from The Big Book of Birth, a book I've really come to enjoy. It was tempting to post another quickie update, but you guys have been very patient and deserve better than the crap I've been slinging lately. It still might be crap, but at least not for a lack of trying.

Take one of my shitty diapers and wipe the contents on the walls. Scoop handfuls of applesauce from the jar and eat it with my bare hands. Wet my pants during fourth grade math. "Accidentally" poke my sister with a nail file. Prank toll-free mental support hotlines under the guise that I was a thirty-something corporate professional whose husband just had been caught in an affair with his administrative assistant. Kiss boyfriends in deserted alleys to avoid getting caught by my parents. Scribble in library books. But the worst thing I ever done--I mixed a pot of fake puke at home, and then I went to this movie theater, hid the puke in my jacket, climbed up to the balcony and then, I made a noise like this: hua-hua-hua-huaaaaaaa--and then I dumped it over the side, all over the people in the audience. And then, all the people started getting sick and throwing up all over each other. I never felt so bad in my entire life.

What is the one thing you are looking forward to doing most after finally having the baby, ie. drinking coffee, touching your toes, shaving your legs?

I've never been fond of coffee, I don't care much for my toes, and with careful (albeit uncomfortable) manuvering, I've been able to maintain normal leg-shaving activity, so those are out. So what I do miss? Sleeping on my back. Grooming my lady parts; hell, being able to see my lady parts without assistance from a mirror. Eating cold lunchmeat without fear of poisoning my unborn child. "Enjoying" my husband. Wearing clothes from New York and Company instead of Motherhood Maternity. I'm so excited about banishing my maternity wardrobe to a tupperware bin in our storage unit until it's time to do this all over again.

As much I as look forward to those things, though, I've surprised myself with the realization that, once this is over, I'll actually miss being pregnant. The first trimester sucked major ass--just thinking about all that morning sickness makes me nauseous--and with the exception of our ultrasound and some moderate fetal activity, the second one wasn't much to write home about, either. But the third trimester.... This is where I feel like I've really come to know my baby, experiencing her sharp jabs and gentle, wave-like rolls, rubbing my hands over the protuding shoulder or elbow or whatever the hell happens to be poking me at the moment. This is where Luke and I can talk to her and she can recognize our voices. This is where I know she's safe all the time, where nobody can get to her without my permission.

This is my first real glimpse at motherhood, and I cannot wait for the rest.

November 08, 2007

Yesterday I received an e-mail from Sarah Brown, creator of Cringe Book, (finally!) informing me that one of my submissions had been accepted for publication. The cringe-filled masterpiece is currently slated for a March 2008 release date.

My winning literary donation?

Randy would be so proud. Or totally creeped out. Or maybe he'd just feel sorry for the little girl inside of me whose rejected heart never completely healed.

That last one is the most likely scenario, seeing as last month somebody found my blog by searching for "Randy Wooten" in Google. Whoops.

Anyway, while the contributors won't see a dime of the advance money, Sarah did say she could snag me a copy of the book, and if the book tour stops through my city, she'd love for me to participate in the reading, so that's pretty cool. It figures, though, that my first published work would be written by my childhood counterpart. After all, she was the true brains behind Tragic Love Friday. What will part three be like without her "e" after "stomach" and her intuitive medical expertise?

(Speaking of TLF, are any of you still chomping at the bit about doing a part three after the New Year? Do you have ideas for potential storylines? I actually have something in mind for Jenna, who I just realized went through the entire sequel without getting any nooky at all. That will SOOO change for part three.)

March 27, 2007

The memory of losing my virginity is one that will never lose color. I was eighteen years old and on the verge of jetting off to college, and Nick and I had been dating for three years--not straight through, but steady enough that each break-up led to a passionate reunion, and every reunion foreshadowed an angry shouting match complete with name calling, door slamming, and hot tears running down one or both of our faces. You know, all the elements of a deliciously amateur teenage romance.

In the summer of 1998, we'd been together consistently since prom (another post in the making), and from that night, I remember everything. The positioning of his lava lamp; our spot on the bed; the CD set to repeat on his stereo. I was convinced that melting into each other, in body and soul would seal our commitment to each other and provide Nick with the life-changing revelation that after sharing such an intimate experience with me, he'd never be interested in anyone else.

In the midst of clumsily trying to find our way around the bedroom, we both had sense enough to use a condom, and continued to do so for the first two months of our sexual relationship, but by the time we finally (unknowingly) severed all emotional ties two years later, the only layer of protection in place was my spotty use of the Pill. What can I say? We were both virgins when we started, and I never once thought Nick had been unfaithful. The only thing I cared about was not having a baby.

One month into my relationship with Mike, who was lucky enough to date Trophy Frema for ten months, I still believed that to be true. However, thanks to all the literature passed around in high school health class, I knew the most responsible course of action when taking on a new partner was to undergo testing for sexually transmitted diseases. At twenty-six years old, almost twenty-seven, Mike had been with twelve women, and it strengthened my resolve all the more.

That's another day I'll never forget, driving the two hours with him to a congested Illinois suburb to receive services at a free clinic sporting stark, white walls and rows of plastic chairs littered with outdated issues of the Chicago Sun-Times. We waited another hour and a half to be seen, and during that time we sat silently because, really, is any sort of small talk appropriate when you're waiting to find out if any previous sexcapades ruined your fertility or planted warts on your privates?

Once our names were called, each of us was whisked away to separate examining rooms, and I solemnly spread my legs as a doctor who couldn't pronounce my name performed a pap smear conducted a culture under harsh florescent lights. When it was over, the nurse who assisted him gave me a brown paper bag filled with female condoms, assuring me that "your guy will thank you for these, honey, I promise." After I donned my clothes, I found Mike already waiting for me in the lobby. "How did it go?" I asked.

He was pretty quiet until we were almost to the stairway, where he stopped, placed his hands on my shoulders, and said, "I love you, but I didn't go through with it." Something about them wanting to stick a Q-Tip through his you know and him vehemently denying access. We argued about it all the way to the car, but ultimately he won, because he said he wore a condom with his last girlfriend, and he'd been tested a few times before, and he was positive he didn't have gonorrhea, and that was that. And even though I knew he'd been with four women in the last twelve months because the forms had a spot for listing your number of sexual partners and he commented on 2000 being a pretty good year, I didn't push the issue. Adding to the madness was the fact that I was still on birth control, but we never used a condom. Not even the female ones endorsed by my overly enthusiastic free-clinic nurse. I was in love, and I trusted him. For almost a year I trusted him, until we broke up, and Luke and I started dating, and soon we were asking questions about the other's sexual history. We brought up the idea of STD testing but never took it any further.

Until this year.

While reading through my Kerflop-approved copy of Taking Charge of Your Fertility: The Definitive Guide to Natural Birth Control, Pregnancy Achievement, and Reproductive Health, I discovered a whole chapter dedicated to the correlation between STDs and infertility, and by the end I couldn't believe how reckless I'd been to kabosh testing after Mike and I parted ways. Suddenly all of my former hesitations--Where will I find another free clinic? What if the doctor calls me a slut? What if Luke thinks I don't trust him?--paled in comparison to the possibility of passing something harmful along to our future baby.

So today, after conducting my second ob/gyn interview in two weeks, I explained my concerns to the doctor, and she didn't grimace in disgust or tsk tsk at my careless behavior. Instead, she arranged for me to meet with the phlebotomist and have my blood drawn to test for HIV, hepatitis, and syphilis. I'll see her again in six weeks for a culture, where she'll gather samples to test for gonorrhea and chlamydia.

Do I think I have a sexually transmitted disease? No. Do I think Nick or Mike ever cheated on me? No. Do I think Luke contracted anything from his previous partner? No. Am I experiencing any out-of-the-ordinary symptoms? No.

But do I know for sure?

No.

And my budding family deserves better.

Edited to add: Upon further consideration, I don't think the exam I received at the free clinic was a pap smear, since they aren't able to check for STDs that way and the doctor knew that was my sole reason for coming in. Culture, the term my new ob/gyn used, is the correct term.

February 15, 2007

Yesterday, as I was packing up my journals and trying to get over the embarrassment of exposing my teenage desperation to the World Wide Web, I noticed the stack of faded notebook pages sitting on top of my filing box, pages that had immediately come to mind the first time I heard about the Cringe Book. I kept my journal entries "private" as promised, but I did submit several poems that highlight my ability to talk about a variety of important subjects.

The importance of optimism (and my inability to accept Randy Wooten as the boy of my dreams):

The dark side of important family/social-justice issues (also, examples of words to rely on when you can't think of anything that rhymes with "sick"):

And lastly, proof that it IS possible to listen to Jewel's Pieces of You album one time too many:

All of these were submitted to the book for Sarah Brown's consideration. I'm confident they'll inspire a happier kind of cringing than my journals did, cringing that won't thrust a desire to slit one's wrists upon the masses.

February 14, 2007

This morning I ditched the office again so I could continue to sift through journal entries documenting my tortured past and submit the most awkward ones for possible inclusion in a book that'll be publicized on a national level. And when I first pulled those books out, it was fun. I'd shriek with delight over each memory and eagerly shove a diary into Luke's hands so he could read passages aloud in his best little-Frema voice. Oh, the days when life's biggest problems included agonizing over which New Kid to pine for!

However, as I moved on to my pre-teen years and straight into full-blown adolescence, it became harder and harder to laugh.

I've written enough about Nick--The One Who Went For Three Weeks Without Calling, the boy who happily accepted my offer of virginity before I took off for college, the guy I obsessed over for FIVE YEARS--on this Web site that the following entries don't need much backstory. The first one was written on February 6, 1996, almost four months after we broke up for the first time.

See how "grade" I was doing? So what if I was afraid to leave the house in case I missed a potential phone call? Who cares I was creating elaborate schemes to make secret contact with the boy who plainly told me I needed to be with someone else, or that I included phrases like "exquisite pain" in my vocabulary?

We got back together that June, but by August we were fighting again. Break-up number two involved confessions of drug use, theft, and contact with another girl in a nearby suburb, with a big "Fuck you!" from me as he fled the scene as fast as his legs could carry him. By spring of my senior year, we were dancing around each other again. We went to prom. We did the Deed. And in between, there were missed phone calls, week-long absences, and awkward conversations about "where this is going." Just like before.

So when I read the entry below, written just days after admitting to my part in our Horizontal Tango (in such detail that I made myself blush, and I wrote the damn thing), I really do physically cringe.

Page 2:

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl! I can't believe how stupid. I was preparing to spend the rest of my life with someone just to rid myself of religious guilt. Because God would've much preferred me to commit to a man prematurely rather than just call a spade a spade and let him go. Classic flawed logic--like when I was debating sex in the first place and thought we shouldn't use a condom because the Catholic church is against artifical contraception. A+, Frema. Well done.

I read these entries and can't decide which is worse: that I let myself get so wrapped up in a relationship before I was ready to stand behind my beliefs or that one day I might have a daughter who feels the same way and I will have to watch her suffer the same way my parents watched me. I was so angry with them, especially my mother, who I often yelled at for not having enough trust in me to make good decisions, right before I ran to Nick's house and spent four hours on the mattress in his bedroom pretending to watch Die Hard. I was in control! I knew when to stop! And when I finally gave in completely, I still believed I knew what I was doing. It was my body! My choice! Who was she to tell me what to do?

I think about having similar arguments with children of my own when they're that age and I'm petrified. I'm in awe my mother was able to restrain herself from popping me in the mouth. I wonder how many nights my father had to comfort her to sleep because I was so quick to declare my independence, so cocky as I threw her teenage pregnancy in her face and informed her how much smarter I was, how I was determined to live a different life than the one she'd panned out for herself. I acted like her advice couldn't possibly have value because I didn't want to admit how self-destructive it was for me to insist on staying with Nick, refusing to "give up" even when he wanted me to. As wrong as he was for me, he wasn't a bad person. He gave me plenty of outs, and if I'd told him to stay the hell away from me, he would've done it. It was me who kept going back, enticing him to come back, making excuses for his behavior so I wouldn't have to think about life without him.

I'm glad I gave this Cringe Book a shot. I'm glad that I'm twenty-seven years old with a wonderful husband (who celebrates his thirty-third birthday today, Happy Birthday, sweetie!) and insanely understanding parents. I'm glad I wrote these entries because the act of putting my feelings to paper was sometimes the only way I could get a handle on my emotions. But I'll also be glad to pack these books up and retire them to my closet again. Refusing to share them out of context with a mass of strangers (I refuse to think of you guys as strangers) will be the Valentine's Day present I give to myself.

February 09, 2007

When Dooce first brought Sarah Brown'sCringe Book project to light last month, I instinctively knew I had to be a part of it, or at the very least try. I received my first combination-lock diary for Christmas when I was nine years old, and I spent the next ten years documenting the highs and lows of my tortured existence through prose, poetry, and song. Discussion topics ranged from my passionate (one-sided) love affair with a local parishoner at Sunday morning Mass and who will be forever known as Church Boy to the day my cousin threw shreds of toilet paper at the bathroom door while I sat defenseless on the john to the first time a boy's tongue found its way into my mouth. I was the Queen of Cringe; to confine those gems to the pages of my college-ruled notebooks and hardcover journals would be a crime against the blogosphere. So I pulled out my tupperware bin containing the chronicles of my past and jumped right in.

I expected to laugh at the reliving of celebrity crushes, pre-teen angst, and my first French. But I didn't expect to feel so sad.

It's those high school entries, covering a time where I was struggling to grasp what love was, what friendship was, what it meant to nurse a broken heart, that get me the most. It's through those entries I'm transported back to November 14, 1995, to the abandoned field outside the 35th and Archer Elevated train station where Nick broke up with me for the first time; to August 9, 1998, when my mother and I had a two-hour blow-out because she'd found my diary and learned that I'd had sex. I wrote about everything in such detail that I can't help putting myself back in those shoes, during a time period where I had no clue how to set boundaries or stick up for myself or get through a bad day. I'm not just cringing; I'm cradling my head in my hands.

However, I can still see the merit in sharing a few of these stories, because as painful as those experiences were, they were also universal, and they're still funny, because I was so damn My So-Called Life-ish about everything. So I'll continue to delve through these masterpieces and attempt to share some in time for the February 14th deadline.

As if this post weren't tragic enough, it's time for another installment of TLF. Try not to sigh over the Angela Chaseness of it all.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN - JENNA (CONTINUED)

I went back to the prison and straightened things out with Kayla the following day. We talked for a while, and I asked a lot of questions about Katherine and the setup of the prison and infant wing. She answered each question in detail. I revealed very little about myself. [Just because Kayla killed Jenna's baby and was prompted for intimate details regarding the facility's security enforcements and her daughter's feeding schedule doesn't mean J's bonding attempts are anything but sincere!]

Just yesterday, a woman brought in Katherine to be fed. [I like the wording of that line, as if eating were an occasional pastime, like going to the park.] Kayla avoided my eyes as she fed and fussed over the child. I studied closely the way Kayla treated her baby; the way she soothed her cries and made her smile. It still hurt to see the baby, but I promised myself that I wouldn't cry. She'll be in your arms soon, I told myself silently. [OK, Jenna's inquiry on how to obtain expressed breast milk was a little odd, but still. BFFs!]

After I left prison, I went to 'Barb's Beauty Palace' and had my waist-length hair cut so it rested just above my shoulders. I considered getting it dyed while I was there, but I vetoed the idea. A woman there could identify me too easily. I went to the local drugstore and bought baby wipes, baby bottles, formula, a couple of baby toys, and a bag of diapers. [And she's worried about her hair color raising suspicion?] I picked up red hair dye for myself.

At home I applied the dye to my hair. The box said it had to sit on my hair for a half hour. During that time, I packed a suitcase for myself. It contained 2 changes of clothes, some toiletries and, as an afterthought, the largest butcher knife in the house. Just in case, I told myself. [You know, like if the baby tries to talk back or call the cops.] Then I set my alarm for 10:00 P.M. and fell asleep with dreams of the future in my head.

[It wasn't until the mention of hair dye that I remembered my mental image of Jenna changed at this point from Finola Hughes to a young Laura Leighton, aka Sydney from Melrose Place. I thought she was absolutely stunning. Also, God I loved Melrose Place.]

* * *

RING!!!!

I hit my alarm and fell out of bed. It was time to get ready.

I hopped in the shower for a while. I got out and put on black jeans and an oversize black sweater. I brushed my hair and let it fall on my shoulders. I gazed into the mirror.

The changes in my hair made me look drastically different. The red hair looked natural, and the color brought out the green in my eyes. I looked like a new person.

I put the suitcase in the backseat of my car, then went back inside. I grabbed my jacket and threw bags of pretzels into a small plastic bag. [In case you didn't notice, I was obsessed with recording every. single. detail. of my characters' appearances and actions. I'm surprised I didn't outline the intensity of their bowel movements.] I slipped black glasses on my face for the finishing touch. I ran into the car and turned on the engine, giggling. I felt (and looked) like the Terminator.

[Growing up, my entire household was in love with Arnold Schwartzenegger and his portrayal of America's favorite cyborg who rocked the casbah with his black leather jacket and once steriod-induced pecks. My mother taped the first movie for us when it aired on cable, but it wasn't until I was an adult that I realized she had conveniently paused the recording during Kyle and Sarah's romp in the motel. I did think it interesting that they went from making out to tying their shoe laces, but it was the eighties, for cripe's sake. What did they know about editing?]

It was 11:30 when I reached the Prison, and I wasn't smiling anymore. My heart was pounding like crazy. What was I doing? How could I even think about taking someone's child?

Because her mother took mine. [This line was originally written as follows: "Because her mother doesn't deserve her. I could give her a better life, a life that she wouldn't spend visiting her screw-up of a mother behind bars." I'm not sure why I scratched it out.]

With newfound determination, I took the butcher knife out of the suitcase, pressed it to my side, and quietly walked into the prison. [If the guards ask, I'll just tell 'em I was making a sandwich! Who doesn't eat their turkey on wheat with the crusts cut off?]

The jail was brightly lit up, and a small man stood at the desk. He looked old, like someone's grandfather. I discretly slid the knife blade-up inside my jeans, covering it up with my sweater. [How does one "discretly" shove a sharp object down their pants? No pun intended, of course.] Limping, I walked up to him. "Hi," I said, smiling weakly. "I'm here to visit Kayla Evans."

He gave me a smile. "It's late, young lady," he said kindly but firmly. "Can't it wait?"

I managed to squeeze a few tears. They clouded up my vision through the glasses. "Oh, please," I begged. [She's still wearing the glasses? Some anonymous woman comes staggering into jail after hours wearing all black and security isn't the least bit alarmed? Jenna must have some grade-A boobies.] He softened [or should I say hardened?] and held on to my arm lightly. "OK. Let's go." He had forgotten to search me, and for that I was grateful. [Another missed opportunity on behalf of a lust-filled man.] He glanced at the metal detector. "I don't need to turn that on to check you, do I?"

"Oh, no sir," I said, shaking my head innocently. "You can trust me."

[In one of my Nancy Drew books, Nancy took on a suspect's identity and weasled out of signing a credit card slip by feigning a hand cramp. Which means this scenario is totally plausible in fiction.]

We went up a flight of stairs, and we started to walk down the hall towards Kayla's cell. A guard was at the end of the hall, his back facing us. "You should go back to the desk. I can go the rest of the way," I whispered.

He smiled. "OK. Bye now." I tiptoed quietly towards the guard until the deskman was out of sight. Then I walked quietly back to the stairway and made a left turn. I found myself staring into the window of the prison's nursery.

The nurse sat in a chair inside by the door. She was snoring, and her head was against the door. [Your tax dollars hard at work, everyone!] There was no one else.

I opened the door slowly and slipped in.

There were about 20 babies, but I spotted Katherine right away. I gazed at her in her bassinet and my heart swelled with happiness. I gently picked her up and held her to me. She started to stir. [Apparently these babies are all on the same schedule. Prison IS strict!] I covered her with my jacket and zipped it up. Cradling her as if my stomache was hurting, I exited the room and took the stairs two at a time.

[Can you picture it? The concealed knife and now-suffocating baby jiggling around in Jenna's coat as she makes her great escape? I could totally see this happening on Melrose Place. Totally.]

The deskman looked surprised as I walked slowly, my arms wrapped around my belly [a baby's limb poking through the sleeve of her coat...]. "I have to go," I gasped. "My period is really heavy this month."

I ran into my car and scrambled inside. I wiggled out of my jacket and wrapped Katherine securely in it. Her eyes gave me a curious stare.

I took off my glasses and gazed at the baby in my arms. I covered her face with kisses. At last! The baby I had dreamed of having was with me. I placed her on my lap, and putting one arm on the baby and using my free hand to drive, very slowly started to pull away from the curb. In 15 minutes, I was right in front of the Illinois Cematary. [Yes, just one for the whole state. Apparently people aren't accustomed to dying in Illinois.] I couldn't enter; the gates were locked. I just stared at the gravestones beyond and whispered David a tearful good-bye.

"I'm so sorry, David," I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. "I'm sorry I lost our baby, and I know that by taking Katherine, I'm making things worse. I know it's wrong, but .... I don't want to be alone." My body was shaking. The baby started to cry. "Dont cry, baby girl," I whispered in a soft but trembling voice. I rocked her in my arms for a few minutes, and she went back to sleep.

A few minutes later I was on the road again, heading for my last stop before I left Illinois for good.

[A few lines down from that last sentence is the following post-script: "When Jenna leaves with the baby, let her pass Cassie and try to talk to her. Next day, Cassie goes into fits of hysteria." For fans wondering about the wherabouts of TLF's favorite batshit-crazy mental case, this is the last mention of her until the sequel.]

-------

We're nearing the end of Part One, folks. Only twenty-seven pages to go until we find out how the first segment of this tragic tragedy ends. Anyone brave enough to make a wager?

December 29, 2006

Today marks the beginning of a four-day weekend for me, a day I'd like to spend catching up on two weeks' worth of All My Children episodes but will probably use to run boring errands like finally updating my driver's license to reflect my married last name and visiting the dentist to take bite-wing x-rays of a tooth most likely infected with a cavity. Luke and I were there just last month for cleanings, during which I scheduled a post implant to replace the molar I had pulled two years ago. I would've had the bite wing taken then if my period hadn't been a week and a half late, causing me to think I was pregnant, but of course it came the next day and I was a little sad but mostly pissed about having to make the thirty-minute drive to the doctor's office before my January 12th appointment. The things I do to avoid radiation exposure to my future children.

But what about Kayla's and Jenna's little rug rats? That's the real question of the hour.

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CHAPTER FIVE - JENNA

I walked out of St. Joseph's Hospital feeling like I could fly. My doctor, Dr. Foremann, had given me an excellent report. "Your little girl's doing great. The next time I see you, young lady, will be in the delivery room." [Because women who are seven months pregnant could never benefit from a doctor's watchful eye. Frema, M.D. strikes again!]

I had really hoped David could be there, but he had to work. Poor David. He seemed so stressed out. I decided to stop at McDonald's and let him know the good news about Mary Katherine.

When I got there, business was slow. David was slipping on his jacket. His face paled as I walked over to him and gave him a kiss. "Jenna, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I just got back from my appointment. The baby's doing great," I said, smiling. David just stared at me. "We have to talk."

"Sure. About what?" He didn't answer, only led me outside to where his car was parked. "First let me tell you that I never wanted to hurt you," he began.

"What are you talking about?"

"It all started last month. One night I was with Mike, and we had a few beers. You and I had a little arguement that day, and somehow..." he bowed his head. "I went to Kayla's house. We talked about my mom, you, the baby. She listened to me. Old feelings were brought up. Jenna ... we made love."

I felt dizzy. David noticed and tried to put an arm around me, but I pushed him away. "Don't touch me!" I yelled. "You bastard! Don't ever touch me again!"

"Jenna, I'm so sorry. I feel terrible." He took a deep breath. "Today Kayla called me at work and said she was pregnant with my child." [Oh, that would've been a fun scene to write! How could I have let that gem slip by?]

That did it. My fist went smashing into David's jaw. He stumbled a few steps backward, but managed to stay on his feet.

I was crying. My eyes blinded by tears, I ran to my car. David was right behind me. "Jenna, wait! Let me explain!" [I think you covered just about everything but positioning, buddy. She gets it.] I started the engine and rolled down my window. Throwing a glass car ornament at him [do these even exist?], I screamed, "Take your explanation and shove it where the sun won't shine!"

I managed to get home without killing anyone. I ran into my house and picked up the phone, punching in Kayla's number. She answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Kayla, you slut! This is Jenna. [Ya think?] I'm just calling to let you know that if you want the asshole who slept with you, take him. He's all yours." I slammed the receiver down.

"Calm down," I told myself. "Don't do anything that would hurt Mary Katherine."

That was the only reason I didn't go kill David. The stress of killing him could hurt the baby.

I needed to talk to someone, or else I'd go crazy. So I hopped back into my car and drove straight to Michael's house. As soon as he opened the door, I collapsed into his arms. "Jenna! My God!" [If this were a TV script, this would be a perfect place to fade to commercial, don't you think?] He scooped me up and carried me to the couch. [How muscular must Michael be to sweep a pregnant woman off her feet? Pretty muscular, ladies!] "Are you OK? What's wrong?"

My best friend was silent as I sobbed in his arms, his hands running through my hair. [I'm surprised they're not on her boobs. News flash, Michael: Groping isn't part of the traditional BFF package!]

After a while, I was OK. I told Michael everything. When I was finished, he looked like he would spit nails. "Jenna, he's a jerk, an idiot and a fool. He doesn't deserve you or that beautiful baby you're going to give birth to."

"What am I going to do?" I wailed.

"You're going to forget about him. He's not worth the effort."

"But he loves the baby. He wants to be in her life."

"So he takes her to the park once in a while. Listen to me," Mike said, cupping my chin in his hands. "I will help you get through this. I'll ALWAYS be here for you. You can depend on me for anything." [Except to support the role your baby daddy hopes to play in your daughter's life.]

"I know." I smiled through my tears. "Tell me: what did I do to deserve such a wonderful friend?"

He hugged me. [Geez, he can't keep his hands off her for even a second!] "Dollface, it's the other way around."

-------

When my girlfriends at school got to this point in the notebooks, they always sighed over Michael's outlandish yet noble display of affection. It even seemed sweet to me at the time, and I wrote the damn thing, but you all know better, don't you?

I have a few thoughts about the story's progression so far. Despite David's superhuman baby-making abilities, I feel for the poor guy, who really has worked hard to do the right thing. Sure, he fucked up a little, but he's also admitted his shortcomings and taken responsibility for his own actions. Most adults in his situation wouldn't have stepped up the way he has for Jenna and the baby, and there's no reason to think he wouldn't support Kayla and her child as well.

My opinions are probably clouded by the fact that I often hoped Nick, who received the best of my heart during my teenage years, would act in a similar manner if I ever "fell with child." I never would have tried to get pregnant on purpose, but I secretly wondered if such a life-altering change of events would inspire him to take stock of his life and realize the wonderful future we could have had if he put forth the effort, because as dysfunctional as our relationship was, we did have amazing chemistry and we really cared about each other. I realize now how naive I was, how lucky I was to be spared the pain of learning my lesson the hard way; Nick didn't have the ability to be the father figure I romanticized about for my babies or the partner I longed to have for myself. But back then I thought about it all the time. What a dreamer I was.

Also, if I were Kayla, and the love of my life came to me one night and wanted to hold me and kiss me and make love to me, I would've had my clothes off faster than you can say "Your mom." For real, peeps.

December 05, 2006

To date I have received eight cheesy CDs. I suppose it's safe to offer my own humble playlist to the world.

"Giving You The Best That I Got," Anita Baker

My love for Ms. Baker defies all logic and was conceived before my first visit from Aunt Flo but after my discovery of Fred Savage. I only know about four of her songs, but man, are they some passionate songs. My favorite one is "Just Because," but I never really nailed the lyrics. This one is much easier to understand and seemed to set the perfect mood for ultimate cheesy goodness.

"Always," Atlantic Starr

Who doesn't love this song? So hopeful, so positive, so optimistic about life and love. This was another song with a confusing line; instead of singing, "When you come around, you bring brighter days," I sang, "You bring back the days." It made total sense at the time.

At Luke's and my wedding reception, the D.J. played this song and preluded it by saying it would be the only slow song of the night. Apparently they do this to provide at least one full dance floor for the photographers.

"Biggest Part Of Me," Ambrosia

When I was fifteen, one of the contemporary pop stations aired a show called "Love Notes" from eight to midnight seven days a week; I succumbed to the song's power after hearing it three times a night every other day during the entire summer of Nick, The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, the summer of my first French kiss (which at the time was called wrapping; is this familiar to anyone else, or was the term confined to the south side of Chicago?) and my first "I love you," my first experience of a boy looking into my eyes and telling me I was beautiful. Resistance would've been futile.

"Sometimes," Britney Spears

This song is really sweet and reminds me of a time when Britney was more into choreographed dances highlighting hand-over-heart gestures than flashing innocent passersby with Paris Hilton outside California A-list night clubs. Did you know that I once dressed up as Britney Spears on Christmas Eve? It's true. My parents had purchased a karaoke machine and I knotted a bathrobe at my midriff and planted two pigtails on the top of my head to sing my own rendition of "Hit Me Baby, One More Time."

Anyway, I really like this song.

"Penny Lover," Lionel Richie

It's impossible to play this ditty without singing to it. From the doo doos to the whoas, every note is delicious. The lines often responsible for bringing my vocal chords to life are "Now my love is somewhere lost in your kiss / When I'm all alone it's you that I miss / Girl, a love like yours is hard to resist /Whoa Whoa Whoooooa."

You want to sing along, too, now, don't you?

"I Knew I Loved You," Savage Garden

On the night of the bachelor auction where I purchased Luke like deli meat at the grocery store, this was the first song we ever danced to. I remember writing the lyrics out and mailing them to him with a letter before I returned to Saint Joe to start my senior year. Savage Garden lyrics! Ack! But this song can still make me cry--especially when Darren Hayes starts screeching at the end.

"The First Time," Surface

The only reason I know about this song is because of VH-1. Back when they hosted Top Twenty Countdowns with celebrity hosts. I think the video featured an interpretive dance. Another tearjearker. (No thanks to the dance.)

"God Must Have Spent A Little More Time On You," 'N Sync

Yes, I've bawled over this one, too. Have you no heart at all?

"Far Away," Nickelback

I go back and forth over my decision to include this on my compilation. It's actually a great love song with little to no cheese factor and thus has no business on a CD inspired by the likes of Lionel Richie. However, they played this over a Zach and Kendall love scene on All My Children, and Zach is really hot with his shirt off. The fact that it reminds me of a soap opera hunk elevates it to at least slightly cheesy, right?

"Lucky One," Amy Grant

So happy! "Lucky One" makes me want to don a breezy white cotton dress and skip rocks on the beach. If I were any good at skipping rocks.

"Soul Provider," Michael Bolton

Believe it or not, this wasn't my first Michael Bolton pick. The CD originally featured "How Am I Supposed To Live Without You," but that put me over my space limit by like, eight seconds, and by that time it was too late to do any major revisions, so I switched the two out. I like it, but I'll forever be reminded of what could've been.

"Cuts Both Ways," Gloria Estefan

Again, not my first choice. "Here We Are" was another song sacrificed due to space constraints.

"Endless Love," Luther Vandross and Mariah Carey

When I first heard this back in 1994, I had no idea it was a remake. Upon hearing the original, I decided Luther and Mariah still did it better.

"No Place That Far," Sara Evans

Half the songs on this disc have the power to make me cry. This video zeroes in on two old people on the brink of extinction holding hands in a forest and celebrating their love. Remember that when you hear this song and just try to hold back the tears, Internet. Just TRY.

"I Just Can't Stop Loving You," Michael Jackson and Some Other Woman

The eighties was a classic time for duets, and everyone knows duets are an essential element to numerous cheesy love songs. For some reason, the female performer is not credited for her musical prowess.

"Saving All My Love For You," Whitney Houston

I'm going to ignore the fact that Whitney's trying to seduce a married man with promises of sex because this is an AWESOME ballad to belt out in the shower. Just ask my parents, as they often heard my performances while I washed up for school.

"Now And Forever," Carole King

This one really tugs at the heart strings, which is why I included it, not because I think it's cheesy. I first heard it in the opening sequence of A League of Their Own.

"You're In Love," Wilson Phillips

I can recall the first time I saw a Wilson Phillips video. I was ten, it was summer, and the chart topper of the moment was "Hold On." I loved this group so much. I even have a recording of me and my older cousin singing this very song. She fastened masking tape over the top slots of one of my singles so we could use it. I thought that was so cool.

I almost included "Impulsive," but this one seemed to better represent the spirit of the cheese.

"Separate Lives," Phil Collins and Marilyn Martin"You have no right to ask me how I feel / You have no right to speak to me so kind"

After the first of many break-ups with Nick, I would listen to this song on my walkman and imagine him bumping into me on the street, his hand reaching to caress my face, his eyes silently apologizing for not being able to give me what I needed even though he wanted me more than anything else in the world. There really is something about your first love that takes your breath away and leaves you completely vulnerable, completely willing to compromise your own values just to be part of that chemistry a little while longer. This song reminds me of the attitude I wanted all of my ex-boyfriends to have, an attitude of I was wrong, but I love you and I'm going to fight for you, even if the words aren't actually there.

I have mixed feelings about this CD. I think it's a good representation of me, but there are so many other songs that deserved to be on there, too. But that's what's so great about a swap. Whatever your CD lacks is bound to manifest itself into the collections of other group members, so that together we make one complete whole. Or something.

November 21, 2006

A few days ago, Britt of Weekday Wisdom blogged about some embarrassing moments she experienced in middle school, and it got me to thinking about an incident in my past I'm not exactly shouting from the rooftops myself, an incident that truly encapsulates the severity of my pre-teen awkardness. And I thought you'd like to hear it. Consider it my Thanksgiving present to you.

The year was 1989, the backdrop fourth grade, and for all but one of the twenty-nine students in Ms. Socha's classroom, the subject was math; for Frema, however, it related to how long she could refrain from spilling the contents of her bladder all over her hardwood chair. Ms. Socha must've had her back turned to the students for a good five minutes while she wrote out various mathematical formulas like fractions and multiplication tables and division exercises and other important number things, while I raised my left hand like an enemy ship waving a white flag after initiating an attack over unfriendly waters: fiercely, with passion, filled with hope for a better tomorrow. But I didn't care about tomorrow; all I wanted was thirty seconds to reconcile with the unfriendly waters raging in my urinary tract.

If this predicament had fallen upon a more confident child, the course of action would've been easy. Say the woman's name already! Students do it all the time! For some reason, though, the thought of asking my teacher for permission to use the potty in front of my peers was more horrifying than wetting my pants.

Which is exactly why I wet my pants.

It started out innocently enough. I'll just go a little bit, I thought, just enough to relieve the pain until Ms. Socha's done at the board, but you know how it goes. Similar to devouring a container of Pringles, once you pop, you can't stop. Two minutes later, my teacher had turned to face the class, a yellow puddle had formed beneath my desk, and I had darted off to the community restroom JUST ACROSS THE HALL (thus making my tale even more tragic), where I cried and peed to my heart's content. Luckily math was the last subject of the day, and since we were so close to dismissal already, I hung out in one of the stalls while the bathroom monitor contacted my mother about bringing a fresh change of clothes for the walk home.

The following morning, I was terrified to go to school; fourth graders aren't known for their compassionate dispositions, the boys being an especially awful lot; it wasn't uncommon for them to taunt their female counterparts by pulling on their hair or mercilessly chanting "Skid Row beat up New Kids!" during recess. It had taken hours to fall asleep the night before, imagining the horrible tricks they might have up their sleeves for me.

Seeing as I approached the playground with this mindset, you can imagine my surprise when a group of friends circled around me hastily, anxious to receive an update on what they called my dire medical condition; apparently everyone had been told I'd gotten sick in class and thrown up in my seat. How a bunch of kids mistook urine for vomit I'll never know. Maybe it was Ms. Socha's doing. Maybe it was God's. Either way, somebody saved my gluteus maximus from months of teasing and humiliation, and I will never forget it.

May 05, 2006

A few weeks ago I stumbled onto this site and, on a whim, joined The Great Blogger CD Swap of 2006. I meant to advertise it here, really I did, but all my blabber about heathenism and color correction did zip to keep me focused about what truly matters in life, which, duh, is your Internet audience. Anyway, I mailed CDs to group members Sarah, Dawnie, and Carla yesterday morning, as well as one to Fraulein N because upon reviewing her song list I begged her to send me a copy, provided she was secure enough in her womanhood to receive a disc that features a song from Hanson.

Since I planned on posting my liner notes once the CDs were mailed, I thought I'd go the extra mile and continue with the whole "Life in Pictures" idea I had oh, TWO MONTHS AGO. So yes. Cheesy pictures set to admittedly questionable music. Lucky, lucky you.

Frema's High School Musical: 1994-1998

“Mmmbop,” Hanson

My love for boy bands and Bad Pop has already been documentedhere, so that needs no explanation. Also, I thought starting the mix off with this track would give an accurate first impression to my group members, all of whom are learning about my world for the first time, as in, I'm so boptastic, you may spontaneously burst into song about planting seeds and flowers and roses (as if roses weren't flowers themselves) in my honor.

Man, I rocked this CD so hard. It was in constant rotation from the summer before senior year all the way through my freshman year at Saint Joe. And I was not ashamed. I would drag my Memorex boom box into the living room and just jam to the grooviness of this song. The vocabulary alone--stellar!

Even MORE stellar is my high school uniform, which comprised a polo, sweater (sleeveless vest or long-sleeved), and the ever-popular plaid skort. This photo was taken at the hospital right next to the school, where many Mystics flocked to pay their candy-striper dues by stuffing charts and refilling ice-water buckets in patients' rooms. It was the first time I ever encountered the smell of death. But it was fun.

I was barely fifteen when this was taken for the school's view book, and it's painfully obvious I have not yet mastered the ability to do good hair, or even decent hair, because my bangs were accepting admission for their own private roller coaster. They were in operation every day until my mother bought me a flat iron, an act that has no doubt secured her a spot in Heaven.

“Bullet With Butterfly Wings,” Smashing Pumpkins

I was an Angsty pre-teen, predispositioned to enjoy the melancholy sounds of Jeffrey Osborne and Rod Stewart, but it was in high school I discovered Slightly Angry Angst, the kind of Angst that birthed poetry stanzas like "Give me a light while I drink this beer / I'm wasting away in my own private hell." Seems appropriate that I enjoyed this song, though the whole world and vampire metaphor was a bit much, even for me.

“Not the Doctor,” Alanis Morissette

When Jagged Little Pill came out, I was fifteen and didn't know what it meant to go down on someone in a theatre. I loved the song, though, and I LOOOOVED this cassette. (Yes, cassette, I didn't get a CD player until I was sixteen, you wanna start somethin'?) I played it when tackling theorums for geometry, when leaving messages on the answering machine of The Boyfriend Who Went Three Weeks Without Calling, with desperate messages to the tune of "Call meeee. Am the soul mate of Mr. Lonelyyy. Am crying RIGHT NOW."

I chose this song because it was one of my favorites; also, I figured everyone and their mother would include "You Oughta Know" on their compilation. Outfoxed you all, I have!

My costume for the role of Peter Quince in Maria's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream, also known as My Imitation of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Be sure to check out that five o'clock shadow. Can you believe I didn't have a boyfriend?

“When You Come Back To Me,” World Party

Soundtracks were huge in the nineties, and the one for Reality Bites may go down in history as one of the best, simply because it features Ethan Hawke singing about a pothead momma and a cokehead dad, after he and Winona Ryder bumped uglies for the first time and he fled the scene, just like Harry did in When Harry Met Sally, only he didn't offer to take Winona to dinner later, he just went to the bar and played loud music and waited for Winona to show up, only Ben Stiller's character showed up, too, and Ethan Hawke had to be a huge tool and sing that song about why can't he get just one kiss.

This song isn't from that scene, though. It's near the beginning of the movie, when Jeanine Garofalo is writing down the names of all her sexual conquests. It seemed Very Adult at the time. Now? Just Very, Very Sad. Not to mention Really Slutty.

“Alone,” Lisa Loeb & Nine Stories

Another instance where I pull a fast one on the masses by refusing to include "Stay," even though I loved it (also on the Reality Bites soundtrack, by the way) and thought Lisa Loeb had a very delicate yet Deep and Soul-Searching voice. This one's from Tails, her first album, which also includes "Stay," and is lots of fun.

“Who Will Save Your Soul,” Jewel

I loved Jewel and her willingness to talk about Love and Humanity and We're All Beautiful and fearlessness in lecturing us not to Hate That Ugly Girl, Because She's Pieces of You. So deep!

"Fade Into You,” Mazzy Star

Confession: I don't know the words to this song. Hell, I don't even know what it's about. I just remember thinking that the sound of this woman's voice was enough to answer all questions about the universe and my place in it. Am thinking they played this on the radio with snippets of dialogue from Natural Born Killers, which I rented once for my mother and me. We got about fifteen minutes in, to the part where they do that "I Love Lucy" parody and Rodney Dangerfield grabs Juliette Lewis's butt, before my mom turned it off and we popped in While You Were Sleeping, which educated us both on the significance of Leaning. That flick is one of my favorites to this day, partly because Bill Pullman is hand.SOME. and partly because it takes place in Chicago during a time when tokens were still in use on the Orange Line. I think the scenes were actually shot on the Brown Line, but whatever.

“Push,” Matchbox Twenty

Remember the controversy surrounding this song, because some people thought Rob Thomas was singing about wanting to knock around a woman? Dumb@$$e$.

Speaking of pushing, I spent the summer before my senior year pushing around a pretzel cart on the boardwalk at Chicago's Navy Pier. (Actually, it was a stationary cart, but the transition, it was flawless, no?) Here I am, properly overexposed to UV rays and mixing sugar for our cinnamon topping. And let me tell you: these pretzels are gooood because they are actually made in the store; none of that buy-'em-in-plastic-wrap-and-stick-'em-on-a-warming-rack business. WE sectioned off the dough; WE made pretty knots; WE burned our forearms getting them into the oven. If you ever visit Chicago and happen to hit the Pier, GET A DAMN PRETZEL and remember the girl who sent you.

Also, not only am I wearing my Kairos cross (more on that in a minute), I am WEARING A PEN ON MY KAIROS CROSS. Jesus died for my sins and I didn't have enough respect to keep Bic ink off his death bed. The fetish forThe Preciouswas clearly out of control.

“Wannabe,” Spice Girls

I liked Hanson, people. Don't tell me you're surprised.

“Talk To Me,” Wild Orchid

I still love this song; these days, I try and figure out which parts were sung by Fergie and which ones were assigned to her Kids, Incorporated partner-in-crime-and-also-sister Rene. Rene must be so pissed now.

“I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues,” Elton John

Did I not warn you I was Angsty and an easy listener?

“As I Lay Me Down,” Sophie B. Hawkins

I first discovered Sophie around the time 90210 was on, because they played "Damn, I Wish I Was Your Lover" during the summer Brenda was playing up to Dean Cain with her awful French accent and Dylan was giving "friendly" massages to Kelly at the beach house. Intrigued, it wasn't until this song came out I was completely sold. This is probably my favorite song of all time, as my entire family can testify, and yes, it made the wedding CD, and no, I don't think her back-up singers are really asking if we want a taco.

This picture makes me want to reach for a hankerchief, because God, how many times didJason attend my high school dances, and how many times was my teenage self too chicken to just ask him the eff out? Instead I pawned him onto every friend I could, as if it were possible to date him by association, and those friends were usually more than happy to oblige, like Adele here on my left, who also worked with me at Pretzelmaker. She took Jason, and I took Jason's friend Eric, who was nice enough but had an oval-shaped head and wore gold rope chain necklaces, and I am of the mindset that no man should ever wear a gold rope chain necklace. (While we're at it, how about no jewelry on men at all? But I digress.) This picture also features my dear sister Samantha, who was on a date with Mike Brady, no lie, and our cousin Kenny on the far left, who was Samantha's friend Liz's date even though he was only thirteen because her original guy backed out at the last minute. Kenny's dad was so proud he brought Kenny to the dance himself, camera in tow, and make 8 x 10 prints of this shot for every single one of us.

“Good Enough,” Sarah McLachlan

Another song I really don't get the meaning of, but the music is haunting and Sarah McLachlan's voice is beautiful and it was how I came to know Sarah in the first place. Fumbling Towards Ecstasy is one of the best albums of that time.

“The Roof,” Mariah Carey

I was a devout MC fan until the release of Charm Bracelet, which means I subjected myself to the monstrosity that is Glitter. Feel free to weep.

This song is on Butterfly, and while there was a video for it, I don't think it received airtime. However, it's one of her sexier songs, and she looked so damn GOOD for this album--trim, in shape, with hair that wasn't flat-ironed to the side of her head. Those were the days.

“China,” Tori Amos

How many of you are familiar with Kairos--you know, the spiritual retreat where you spent four days in pseudo group therapy, listening to talks and songs and receiving absolution for the time you let your boyfriend stick his tongue in your ear? (So kinky!) I first heard Tori Amos during my junior year while on this retreat and was completely taken by her voice and lyrics. However, I was still horribly naive, and when listening to "Silent All These Years," I thought the line "Boy, you best pray that I bleed real soon" was totally a cheap shot at trying to be Deep With Intangible Ideas, because what in the hell could a line like that possibly mean?

And that's when I learned where babies come from.

Here's where I brag and tell you that, in my senior year of high school, I played "Anne with an e" in Anne of Green Gables. Only my production was more like Frema of The Obvious Hair Piece, because my red wig kept slipping to the back of my head, thus revealing my bangs, which had finally exited the nauseating roller coaster only to subject itself to a daily fake-and-bake with a flat iron. Also pictured: Samantha puckering up for the camera, while across from her is her then husband-to-be Dan. They met and fell in looove during the run of this play.

Change the World,” Eric Clapton

One of the best. love songs. ever.

“Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me,” U2

Very cool music; more importantly, it was played during the ending credits for Batman Forever, which provided the setting for my first-ever movie date, with Nick, the one with the aversion of actually having conversations with me more than twice a month. It was a fun date, though. Just holding hands was enough to send The Woman In Me to infatuationalistic heights. (Look at me totally reinventing American vernacular. Am freakin' genius!)

“To The Moon And Back,” Savage GardenPlease don't laugh. I was very young. I won't even tell you how--just months ago--I tried to feel out Luke's willingness to use "I Knew I Loved You" as our wedding song, because we danced to it the night of the auction.

This was taken at my "surprise" going-away-to-college party the month before I left for Saint Joe and features photographic evidence of Nick's floating head, a head we've already established was not so good with the whole phone bit. There's also a second ex in here, Kurt, and living proof of HIS existence is at the bottom of this photo. He was one of Jason's numerous botched attempts at a fix-up, and he eventually went on to hook up with two of my friends, which still amazes me because he really did leave a lot of spit on my face, so I wasn't all about giving a glowing recommendation. (I actually thought he was the bee's knees until I realized he'd attended community college for like, nine semesters and still didn't have an associate's degree, but even then I asked him to prom and he said yes but then took it back and said no, and apparently anger and humiliation were all I needed to find my balls, because I used them to finally ask Jason, who proceeded to balk and stammer and pretend he didn't Get it, so I finally asked Nick, who'd been hanging around since Easter, anyway, months after one of our set-your-watch-by-it break-ups, so now you know who's really to blame for me losing my virginity.)

One last note about the CDs: it wasn't until after I mailed them that I realized I could've been a little more upbeat in my selections; like, maybe Elton John was never meant to share the musical stage with Hanson, and the "chicka Cherry Cola" song from Savage Garden was probably better known. There's also a number of songs I thought about including but didn't, as well as songs I would have included had I more time to contemplate the play list. Therefore, I'll end this post with my honorable mentions:

"Ode to My Family," The Cranberries"Sunny Came Home," Shawn Colvin"Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money In My Hand," Primitive Radio Gods"Far Behind," Candlebox"I'll Be There For You," The Rembrandts"These Are Days," 10,000 Maniacs

March 09, 2006

Luke normally sends me a link to his blog whenever he's added a new post, and upon seeing the title for this entry, my first thought was that he stole my idea to shamelessly display our family photographs online. But he didn't, so then I felt dumb, and also remembered that I didn't invent posting photographs on the Internet.

Anyway, without further adieu, I bring you Frema: The Early Years.

I was born on January 9, 1980. My mother was barely nineteen when she gave birth to me. At that age I was chasing shots of ten-dollar vodka with Hershey's syrup and being seduced with adult films like Hindfeld by small-town boys eager to show me their glow-in-the-dark pictures. What do you mean, there's no glow-in-the-dark picture? If there's no observing of the glow-in-the-dark picture, what on Earth do you want us to do?

Oh.

This is my first school picture, which puts me in kindergarten, possibly the only grade where children can pull off wearing cherries on their dress collar without bearing some sort of "dork" label. On my first day, my mother said I was inconsolable because we showed up for the morning session and my group was slated for the afternoon.

Notice how sleek and straight and shiny my hair is here? How the light hits the brown and gives it the illusion of exotic jet-blackness? Soak it up, my pretties. Soak it up.

The first thing you'll notice is the hair, because most of it's gone. This is partly due to lice and partly due to my scissor-happy grandma. The elementary school I attended had a terrible lice problem; at one point, my parents were receiving notices from administration every other day about how "a recent case" had been reported and what lice was and how to look for it and what to do when you found it. In the beginning, my mother was very diligent and spent hours checking every strand on our heads for signs of them before subjecting us and the house to a thorough purification with products like this and scalding hot water. However, it didn't take long before the mere sight of a typed letter was enough to send her stuffing our Wuzzles into garbage bags (where the bugs would die a slow and painful death via suffocation) and lathering our scalps with twelve-dollar shampoo that BURNED. My hair was the worst because my shade of brown was almost identical to the color of their shells, and it was very thick, so thick it took an entire bottle to de-lice me. My mom finally decided enough was enough and sent me to my dad's mother for a hair cut. Cut it she did. And I wept.

(You know, the only book I remember even mentioning lice was Starring Sally J. Freeman as Herself. Judy Blume deserves mad props, because if anybody in my class or Samantha's class had it, they never let on, and we were so embarassed, but someone had to have it or else why'd we keep getting those damn letters? It's not too late, people. Break the silence!)

The second thing long-time readers might notice is the necklace, because I hate necklaces so much I can barely tolerate seeing them on other people, let alone myself, but my mother thought my outfit needed "a little bit of color." We fought for fifteen minutes, and she won, and I wept yet again. The humanity! The pained smile! Just further proof of my defeat.

The day before Easter, 1989, coloring eggs and decorating my cousin Kenny's forehead with awesome star stickers. The Necklace Torture had escalated to unthinkable heights, as I was forced to wear a gold cross my great-grandmother had chosen especially for me in honor of my First Communion. The woman was seventy-five and only knew about twenty words of English, so she couldn't be expected to remember that the very thought of precious metal sent shivers of horror down my spine. However, Parental Management decided my wearing it was the polite thing to do, so I wore the necklace.

I hated wearing that necklace. The chain always tangled in the shower and pulled out chunks of the little hair I had left when I slept. There were no tears when the clasp broke three months later.

I think this picture was taken on the day my parents closed on the purchase of this apartment building; we lived on the second floor and my mom's mom and my auntie Donna took the first. Now, though, my gram has since passed away and my auntie Donna started her own family so now the remaining members have found ways to monopolize the entire space. There are pool rooms and ping-pong table rooms and personal offices and separate bedrooms for each kid. MTV should feature it on an episode of Cribs.

My dad's the one with baby Geo. My mom's lovin' her Reebok high-tops, I'm sporting Simpleton glasses and a questionable hot pink/beige color scheme, and Samantha's rocking the casbah in her neon green shorts and purple headbead. All while Ryan tackles daring experiments in skirt length and Auntie Donna guards my pre-pubescent, negative size-A breasts from the exploitive nature of the camera. All of us trendsetters WAY before our time.

Same day. I'm only including this so you can fully appreciate the Simpletonness of my spectacles. Vision problems didn't show up until third grade, so this was my first pair of glasses. My dad thought I was mature enough to pick my own frames. And really, after seeing the results, don't you agree?

It gets worse:

For some reason my eleven-year-old mind must have equated frame size with frame coolness; there's no other explanation as to why I would intentionally seek out lenses that swallowed both my cheekbones. My mother held back the urge to ask "WTF?" when she saw my latest fashion accessory but did request that I remove them for Picture Day. Whoops. Not helping matters is the red bow clip that seems to be hanging on only by grace of the Lord Himself.

This black-and-white dress (complete with trendy plastic belt!) is the same one I wore to my auntie Diane's wedding earlier that September, on a day that started out with me deciding there was no harm in yanking off the lid of a can of Purina when the can opener failed to make a clean cut. Turns out there was harm. And lots of blood. A five-hour trip to the emergency room and stitches for my left index finger and thumb. And yet I still made it to the wedding, because the last reception I went to had these really cool drinks called Kiddie Cocktails, and no way was I missing my chance to have some more of that, because even though it tasted just like 7 Up it came with a decorative cherry and little red mixing straw, and holy crap did I feel Adult ordering my drink from the bar like everyone else.

No Early Years photo essay would be complete without at least one picture of Donna Lyn, the youngest of us five, born to my mother at the age of thirty-two. This was about a week after her first and last C-section, and she let me skip school on the account of officially Becoming a Woman that very morning, and the cramps, woman, my God, the CRAMPS! Actually, it was less about the cramping and more about the attention I wanted to shower on my latest sister, and my mom didn't mind the extra help because in her midst was a brand-spankin' newborn and a four-year-old boy waiting patiently for his invitation to join the world's Most Fearsome Fighting Team. It's likely that the root of my Baby Fever is traceable to this very moment. See how natural Donna looks in my arms? Why I didn't become a teenage mother I'll never know.

I'm only one year older than I was in the last picture, but already my hair has taken a turn for the worse: thick, frizzy bangs and a layer that crowned around the top of my earlobes, a layer I thought I could cleverly disguise by pushing it back with a headband. But I also thought pink glasses were cool, so is anyone surprised my middle-school nickname was Shredder?

March 31, 2005

Well, here it is, the night before The Big Day, and there's a hint of that I'm-going-to-wet-my-pants feeling sitting inside of me that will not go away until tomorrow at 4:00 p.m. CST, at which time my next career move should be cinched. I have a quarterly review scheduled with my boss for this Monday, and out of respect for her, I will not announce any news to the Internet world until after our 9:30 meeting. So, to keep myself from going crazy thinking about all the what-ifs, and to give any faithful readers I have something to chew on for the next few days, here is one of the most in-depth lists I could ever create.

100 Things About Frema

1. I love spinach dip.2. Even though it has negative gaseous effects.3. My biggest food passion is all Luke's fault.4. He's the one who took me to TGI Friday's for our first out-of-town date and he wanted to try the spinach dip and I was just trying to be polite.5. I often try to be polite, but not about food.6. I despise seafood, beans, squash, eggs, and anything that's not chicken, ribs, french fries, and grapes. And spinach dip, but we've already established that.7. Babies make me cry.8. I hope to have three kids one day.9. I realize this is not entirely up to me.10. I don't want to have one right this minute, but seeing happily married women with newborns triggers bad cases of baby fever.11. Current favorite girls' names are Lydia and Charlotte.12. Boys' names: Peter and Nathan.13. I am the oldest of five siblings.14. This means I try very hard to be a good role model and show my brother and sisters what you can achieve if you just apply yourself. Most of the time.15. My first official leadership role was as president of the Chicago Chicks Club.16. I made this club up when I was 10.17. I also made myself the president.18. I was also a snob. Very Babysitters Club/Kristy Thomas-like.

19. I don't always shower on my days off from work.20. But I always make a bowl of spinach dip.21. And watch soap operas.22. For the most part, I lead a very simple life.23. It will become even more simple once I finish my master's degree in June.24. The degree will be in writing.25. The first story I ever wrote was called We'll Never Eat Candy Again. It was fewer than 10 pages long but had a table of contents and "About the Author" section.26. The longest story I ever wrote, at a whopping 154 pages, was called Love, Betrayal, and a Baby 2, inspired by hours of invested time in All My Children, General Hospital, and Melrose Place at the impressionable age of 13.27. Yes, there is a part one.28. Yes, there is a baby's daddy.29. Yes, I still love it when people ask to read it.30. I have written three songs in my lifetime.31. One of them serves as the theme song to the Chicago Chicks Club.32. Last summer I wore acrylic nails.33. I don't anymore.34. But they helped to break me of my nail-biting habit.35. My childhood role model was Ryan White.36. Now it's my dad.37. He's worked at least two jobs for most of the 25 years he's been married to my mother, so she could stay at home with us kids.38. I think the hardest jobs have nothing to do with sitting in front of a desk.39. I want to be a stay-at-home mom one day, too.

40. I've always enjoyed taking silly pictures.41. I have never enjoyed earrings.42. My ears aren't even pierced.43. Once, to impress a boy, I jumped from the middle of a going-up escalator.44. I did not impress this boy.45. But I did make him laugh.46. And then went out with his friend.47. Who was 18.48. I was 15.49. I have always dated older guys.50. My dream wedding used to involve a cruise ship, enclosing my and my husband's wedding vows in a wine bottle, and throwing them into the ocean.51. My dream wedding now involves fewer than 100 people and a gazebo.52. I like to keep my life very scheduled.53. I like to schedule other people's lives, too.54. I'm organized like that.55. I love clicky pens, Post-Its, college-ruled paper, and blank journals.56. I began my first diary on Christmas Day when I was nine years old.57. It was the same year that I read Paul Zindel's The Pigman. One of the best books ever.58. I read all the time as a kid.59. Reading allowed me to believe that mysteries could be solved in skirts, boarding schools were fun, and stories about lab rats could make you cry.60. Reading Archie comic books allowed me to believe that teenagers never ventured past seventies fashion.61. I wrote an Archie comic once.62. They were on their way to a New Kids on the Block concert.63. I also wrote a New Kids on the Block series.64. The word you're looking for now is "imaginative."65. And maybe "dork."

66. I believe in God.67. I used to be scared of God.68. My father's mother used to tell me stories about the Devil popping out of the ground and bathroom mirrors and dragging people's bodies into hell.69. What the hell was my grandma thinking?70. I still can't sleep with my feet uncovered.71. The Devil could take it as a sign of my wickedness and drag me down next.72. Clearly, covered feet are enough to keep me safe.73. These fears did not prevent me from gobbling up scary movies.74. To this day, after watching one of them, someone needs to walk me to the bathroom.75. I'm no dummy.76. I believe in the unknown.77. I believe in eating a pint of ice cream in one sitting.78. I believe this is why I have a gut.79. It used to bother me much more than it does now.80. When I was 12 and into self-help books, I read a lot about eating disorders and social justice issues.81. I also made myself throw up for three weeks.82. When my parents found out and took me to the doctor, he thought I'd been doing it for five or six. I was that good.84. I think I did it more for attention than for anything.85. When you're a teenager who doesn't wear cool clothes, doesn't smoke, has no boyfriend, and isn't allowed to visit friends without parental supervision, what else do you do?86. High school was a huge turning point for me.87. I am a big fan of single-gender schools.88. Green and blue are my favorite colors.89. If I had to pick one, though, it'd be green.

90. I am pro-life.91. I still struggle with heels and eyeliner.92. Nobody would ever describe me as sweet.93. Or a bad-ass.94. But I am cute.95. I love to laugh.96. I like to scribble when I watch TV.97. I belt out Lionel Richie and Mariah Carey love songs in the car.98. I am the twenty-something Angela Chase.99. I cry at the drop of a hat.100. And I love the sound of my full name.

Tonight Luke and I were hangin' out at the Wal-Mart when I stumbled across the complete first season of this on DVD. Ah, memories. Before there was Monk, there was a sixty-plus-old Nancy Drew fighting crime and fueling her writing with it. When I was a kid and had very little of a life during the summer, my grandma and I spent many a night watching Angela Lansbury in action via reruns on USA. When that wasn't enough, it was Miss Marple. (We also played The Legend of Zelda, held marathon Yahtzee sessions, and devoured Dominicks-brand gummy worms. Who doesn't love Yahtzee, right?) I was so in love with mystery-solving that I seriously considered becoming an FBI agent in high school (I suppose that was also partly due to Jodi Foster's stellar performance in The Silence of the Lambs). The fascination ended when I learned getting in required taking the GRE and picking up a foreign language. Take THAT, the Man!

Because the collection was pushing 40 dollars, I left the store Angela-free. However, I did walk away with Cathy Dennis's debut album for only seven bucks. Because? When a CD has "C'Mon and Get My Love" and "Touch Me (All Night Long)" on it, what else are you supposed to do? Now I can finally chuck the tape.

January 10, 2005

Lots of people think that, no matter what a baby looks like, he/she automatically qualifies as "cute" simply because of said baby status. I'm not so sure I agree. And when I look at this picture, I bet most others wouldn't, either. For though my dress is quite frilly and my booties quite fluffy, I clearly bear the face of a 50-year-old man.

This is me now:

All likeness to the 50-year-old man is gone, though this hat gives my noggin the shape of a conehead. I wanted to post a picture from today, the day of my birthday extravaganza, but it's late and I'm tired and my smiles are coming out kind of forced. Sometime soon, I'll show off my new 'do, sans hat.

It really was an awesome day. Luke made banana pancakes for breakfast and gave me some very thoughtful presents, my favorite being the complete collection of Winnie-the-Pooh's stories and poems. Then we went to Chicago, where my I-love-them-so-much family had cake and presents and signs announcing that I am "da bomb." All of my siblings were there, a special treat since we scatter around as we age, and I cried when I opened my mother's gift: my baby book, jam-packed with pictures, cards, letters, and descriptions of my earlier years. We stopped by my friend Brooke's house, who herself recently celebrated a 21st birthday, and was having a party for her little son, Matthew, who turns one tomorrow. After a home-cooked dinner back at home, Luke and I were off to Merrillville, where we had a nice visit with his parents. It was a wonderfully relaxing, slow-paced day, filled with the people I care about. And, may I just say, I was having an awesome hair day, making it even more depressing that my photo shoot didn't work out.

December 14, 2004

Out of all the possible ideas for a non-fiction book I may someday write, right now this one seems the most plausible. When it comes to the boob tube, these last few months have been the worst. Because of my born-again love for the soap opera, I have at least one show a day on my "Must-See" list. I have not missed an episode of All My Children since this summer - quite a feat, considering work and two grad classes and a boyfriend and sometimes a life outside all of those things. Since it's on right before AMC, I'll occasionally watch Days of Our Lives, a show I used to love; sometimes, just for the hell of it, I'll even flip to General Hospital. Every time Luke comes over, the TV's on; just today he stopped by for dinner before a meeting while I was absorbing the second half of Melrose Place. Besides "I love you," "Do we have to watch this?" is the most popular sentence I get. And I don't blame him. Thinking about it today, I realized that I have become a full-fledged couch potato. No wonder I so often feel blue. No wonder I get the munchies all the time. No wonder!

Part of the reason I've become so enraptured with these shows is due to my childhood. I vividly remember being 12 years old and watching commercials for the premiere of Melrose Place, pegged as the 90210 for twenty-somethings. I also vividly remember my mother and father yelling at me to "turn that sex crap off!" Now, I'm that twenty-something, with her very own cable bill, and I can finally learn why Alison ran out on her first wedding to Billy! What happened to Kimberly! If Syndey ever left the show! without having to throw nervous glances in my mother's direction, my hand grasping the remote for dear life, my lips ready to protest that I was actually into Mr. Destiny one channel up.

It's a thin argument, I know, and the reasoning doesn't work for shows like Joey, The Apprentice, Scrubs, and What Not to Wear. Watching imaginary people live their own lives will not help me pay off my credit card debt; finish the third installment of the Narnia Chronicles; find my true calling; discover the best possible me. (Except in the case of the latter, in which all the contestants are real and the fashion advice they receive at the expense of their dignity is offered to me for free.) So today, after Luke left for his meeting, I turned off the TV. I swept the floor. Washed the dishes. Called a friend. Thought about exercising to a 60-minute Richard Simmons video but decided to blog instead. Hey, it's about baby steps, right?

October 11, 2004

Tonight I was flipping through the channels when I noticed that Rescue Me was on FX. This is a relatively new show starring Denis Leary that deals with the ins and out of life in a New York firehouse. I didn't discover this program on my own; on Tuesday nights after class is over, I walk into my parents' kitchen in Chicago and see them at the table, glued to the television, laughing themselves silly. That is, unless my dad's at his own firehouse; then it's my mother, snickering alone.

I was thinking about this tonight and remembered that, even as a child, I've always loved hearing my parents laugh. I was never a huge fan of I Love Lucy, but my mom was addicted to it, which was reason enough to park it on the couch and submit myself to Lucyisms she couldn't get enough of. As for my father, he enjoyed impersonating Michael Jackson, telling jokes about the King of Pop's faded skin color and disappearing nose and faking embarassment about being a former president of his local Brady Bunch Fan Club.

When I was little, laughing reminded me that my parents weren't just parents. They were people who had likes and dislikes, bad days and funny days, with funny bones to match. We still get hysterical reminiscing about old Brady Bunch episodes, cracking jokes about the infamous house of cards and the charm bracelet that almost ruined it for Carol's girls.

September 03, 2004

Not that I ever had one, but the idea sure is nifty. Thanks to the whodunit storyline on All My Children, I had horrible dreams last night about trying to track down a killer in the very scary town of Rensselaer. Only MY murder mystery had more blood and fewer attractive people. When I wake up from dreams like that, I'm very aware that my feet have wandered outside of the blanket, therefore giving the devil the perfect opportunity to grab them and pull me into Hell.

Cheery, huh? This ain't the first time I've been plagued with a bad dream. I've been having them consistently since age nine, after my first viewing of Child's Play, which I originally thought to be an adult movie about sex. (Don't ask.) Then came Pet Sematary, Freddie Krueger, Michael Meyers, and a variety of B-grade horror movies. Pet Sematary was probably the scariest; the ghost and the bed-ridden sister haunted me for years. At night, I had to position myself in such a way that I could keep an eye on the closet and the main doorway. The closet had to be closed - there'd be no Chuckies plotting against ME - and I had to be underneath the covers as much as possible - you know, to protect myself from the whole devil thing. (That phobia, though, didn't come from scary movies but my grandmother's religious folklore.) Once, I laid in bed covered from the neck down, stiff as a board for 45 minutes because I thought I heard a voice that didn't belong to either one of my parents. I was too scared to even turn my head.

Most of these habits have carried over into my adult life. I can't go to the bathroom alone after a scary movie, my feet still have to stay under the covers, and I can't sleep with my back to the door. When I moved off campus into my first house, I slept on the couch in the living room for two weeks straight, too scared to be alone in my own room - and that was with a roommate. The closet was huge and held to many terrifying possibilities.

Luke says I'm silly, that I'm old enough to know that there aren't monsters in my closet, devils under the bed, and crazy old ladies waiting to crack my spine. But, bless his heart, after movies like The Ring, he's still kind enough to walk me to the bathroom.

August 29, 2004

So there I was on this quiet Sunday, lounging around in my comfy PeaceFrog pajama pants, catching up with my family via telephone back in Chicago. When my 16-year-old brother gets the phone, we talk about school, home life and, at my prompting, his love life. I asked Geo if he had a girlfriend: "Not a girlfriend...." After some more coaxing, I finally get out of him the fact that while he's not courting any special lady, he does have lady friends. For, you know....

"For what?" I said."Making out?"

"Making out?" he cried, and had a hearty laugh at my ignorant expense. "That's from like the fifties." And laughed again when I told him I didn't kick it with a homie until I was 15.

"But he was 18, so that made me cool, right?" I asked.

His reply: "What's with you and all these old guys?"

So, peeps, in case you don't have the 411 on current lingo trends, know that if there's a boy or girl in your life that you kiss often but do not officially date, the two of you are kickin' it. When I was 11, I referred to it as "necking" because that's what Jeffrey Osborn called it in "Baby, Stay With Me Tonight." (And I was denied access to rap because it was dirty. I mean, do you hear some of the stuff they play on the Lite?)

While I may be out of the language loop, my parents have had at least one teenager in the house since 1993, so they're on the up and up. Mom closed our time together with "Word to your mother." ("You know that's you, right?" I told her.)

August 27, 2004

I finally finished Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim (a true masterpiece, by the way) and began a new book. I've decided to tackle The Chronicles of Narnia series, so I'm reading the first installment, The Magician's Nephew. After the first line, I was hooked.

"This is a story about something that happened long ago when your grandfather was a child."

By the end of that sentence, I could already feel myself floating out of my body and into C.S. Lewis's world, which I just knew was going to be wonderful. And I'm 24 - imagine reading that as a child!

As I think about what kind of values I want to impress upon my future children, it's overwhelming. But when I think about the insights I've gained from books, the task seems a wee bit easier. Here are just a few.

Are You There God? It's Me, MargaretFrom religion to menstruation, there's a time for everything. Plus, those handy "We must, we must, we must increase our bust" exercises.

Flowers For AlgernonIgnorance is bliss.

The PigmanCreepy old men aren't always what they seem.

Fear Street seriesSometimes there are monsters in your closet.

Nancy Drew FilesWomen can do anything...

Sweet Valley High series...but some things should still wait until the second date.

Archie comicsThreesomes are cool!

The Baby-sitters ClubDuh, I learned how to baby-sit.

Flowers in the Attic seriesReading this at 12, I didn't learn a thing - in fact, I was left with even more questions. "Mom, what's an orgasm?" (You think I'm kidding?)

August 21, 2004

My mom called tonight with exciting news: my dad bought a brand-new 2004 GMC truck! He just picked it up today, so it'll probably take a while for the novelty to wear off. Or maybe it'll never wear off. The last new vehicle my family owned was in the early 1980's. Mom said he was grinning from ear-to-ear.

These days, people are so concerned with having the "perfect life" before they start a family - sometimes before they even start a life (is that a good example of ironic?). Make sure you finish college before you get engaged. Pay off your credit cards and get the big-money job before you marry. Buy a big house and drive an SUV before you have kids.

When my parents had me at 19, I was the ONLY thing they had. They struggled. My dad joined the Marines right before I was born, and my mom stayed in Chicago with me for almost a year before the three of us moved to Tennessee, then North Carolina. And they always needed money. Once, when I was four and Samantha was barely two, they received a coupon for a free family portrait from the gas company. When Mom went to pick it up, she found several different shots, but only one was free. After picking her favorite, she watched in horror as the receptionist threw the rest away.

As I got older, my family grew. We still struggled, but things got better. My dad went from taxicab driver to Chicago firefighter. My parents went from renters to apartment owners. And after I graduated from a middle school where students carried guns and threw books from the third floor, they worked even harder to keep me in a well-respected, private high school.

Today, two out of my parents' five offspring are college graduates, and a third just became a freshman. But there's still one in private school and another on her way. The only time my parents get new clothes is during the holidays, only it's less about money (though it's still tight) and more about them putting that money into other things. So when my dad got this new truck, it was hard-earned. If they had waited to have "the perfect life" before starting the future, where would they be today? Where would I be?

This entry isn't as concise as I'd hoped to make it, but I'm so proud of my parents for trusting each other, dedicating themselves to each other, and paving their own way. I believe they are the best example that "perfect" has nothing to do with status and everything with love.

And in case you're wondering, yes, the title is a tribute to Paula Abdul.

July 28, 2004

At 9:00 tonight, my parents will drop Samantha off at O'Hare airport so that she can make the big trip to Africa with SJC Habitat For Humanity members. Everyone's a little nervous to see her go, but I admire her so much for going to a place outside of her comfort zone in order to experience something new.

Meanwhile, as Ryan prepares for college life at Columbia and Saint Joe welcomes another freshman class, I can't help but remember what that time was like for me. The memories are fuzzy, not because I can't recall them, but because it feels like they happened to somebody else, not me. I think about my first roommate and clinging to her as we traveled from Chicago to a little town whose name I couldn't even pronounce. I hated the bugs, the lack of public transportation, the absence of a mall. I missed my family and friends. I missed feeling confident in the person I was. Thinking about that makes it even funnier to me that, almost seven years later, I'm still here.

While I certainly wasn't a wild child, there were definitely a few crazy times that I like to think about and laugh about; getting drunk for the first time; receiving out-of-town visitors at 3:00 in the morning; going to parties, throwing up, and then partying some more. Staying up late to play cards and eat Little Debbie snack packs, the mother of all food groups for broke teenagers. I can't say I had a bad time.

Some people say they don't believe in having regrets; because we have free will, we should embrace each choice we've made because it's our own. I don't think that's true. Having free will doesn't mean having full understanding of ourselves and our actions, and I sometimes wish I had branched out a little more in college--made a bigger effort to know more people, go out on a limb, try new things. As I see Ryan saving up money for dorm furniture and picking out her fall classes, it's hitting me harder than ever that I can never go back to that place again. I will never be 18 years old again. Never again will my life revolve around school. Gone are the days where 20 bucks could last me two weeks because all I needed was money for Grandma's pie. No more waiting for 3 a.m. visitors. I'm just too damn tired.

The upside: I'm glad I can't go back. I was too insecure, too dependent on the people around me, people who couldn't even get their own act together. It's only now that I truly feel confident in who I am and who I've become. But if I could capture those days on video, the good times and the bad, I'd happily watch them all.

July 14, 2004

The newest installment of VH-1 pop-culture programming debuted this past Monday, and unlike the '70s and '80s, in the '90s I was both alive and old enough to connect with everything the panel members are talking about.

Since I sooo enjoy "listing," here are some of my own reasons for loving the '90s:

New Kids on the BlockI had plenty of trading cards and those cheap buttons you found in the dispensers at the grocery store. However, we never had the money for the actual music. To make the kid in me feel better, I finally bought Hangin' Tough on cassette when I was 15.

NeonI wore it all the time, all the while never worrying about a matching color palate. My favorite outfit consisted of a green shirt, blue shorts, and red Keds.

Ding Dong DitchThe kids in my neighborhood played this game daily during the summer until one of our victims threatened to call the police.

Seven UpEven though I was almost never picked. :(

Teen BeatI wanted to read 17, but my mom thought it was "too old" for me. Like talking about STDs and birth control is inappropriate for children or something. To say the least, I was disappointed, but Teen Beat did have a great Eddie Furlong poster for me to tape on my hamper.

Kissy FurI may be the only person my age who remembers this cartoon, but it was way cool. "Gaaators!"

Sweet Valley HighAnd my mom thought 17 was inappropriate.... Just kidding - this series never talked about the kids who scored beyond first base. I'm sure it was part of the inspiration behind Beverly Hills, 90210, as it took place in California and half of the student body was rich. Which brings me to...

Beverly Hills, 90210I always rooted for Kelly, even when she and Dylan fooled around behind Brenda's back. My sister Samantha and I used to listen to the soundtrack all the time. Remember that? I'm almost embarassed to admit that I bought it used on CD way after the craze was over. Almost.

* It should be noted that my parents did not approve of 90210, so half the time I had to wait for my friends to tell me what happened on the school bus the next day. You can imagine the chaos that erupted when I tried to watch Melrose Place.

The Baby-Sitters ClubI was so into this club that I started my own - The Chicago Chicks Club - only we were less about baby-sitting (OK, not at all about baby-sitting) and more about eating candy and plugging dirty words into Mad Libs books. Stacey was my favorite sitter, but I was probably more like Kristy - tomboyish and bossy. I even wrote an anthem and made all the club members sing it before meetings. Approach me when I've got a couple of Sky Blues in my system and I'll sing it to you.

I'm Telling!The best teen game show ever!

I could go on and on, but I won't. Instead, I will ask: What do YOU love about the '90s?

July 13, 2004

Tonight, feeling somewhat literary as I began proofreading the first four chapters of Chris's novel, I came across a character, Mackenzie, who had an obsession with one of the boys at his school. Later, Mackenzie realized how badly he wanted to befriend him.

How easy it is to harvest an obsession, for whatever reason, especially when you're in high school. You're still so impressionable, still on the prowl for an everyday hero. It was around my junior year that I found one of my own. Her name was Ellen, and I thought she was one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen. She had this great long brown hair and a sharp sense of humor that couldn't be matched. Ellen was a part of every vital organization my high school had - student council, theatre, Christian Life Community, etc. - and was always surrounded by a crowd of people wherever she went. My eyes followed her movements during lunchtime, sought her out in the classes we shared.... Sometimes just being within earshot of her was enough to warm me up for the rest of the day. I took a picture of the two of us from one of the school plays and stored it in my memory box, the same place that housed love letters and mementos from old boyfriends. I even wrote a poem about her, never telling anyone but my sister who it was about.

Sounds like love, doesn't it? Maybe it was. I certainly admired Ellen for being so confident and witty and self-assured, never caring about what people thought about her but still doing her best to make others feel welcome. We were in a lot of the same activities together, and I thought we were so much alike, both of us spreading ourselves thin, both of us aiming for that star with your name written all over it. I used to pray to God for us to become closer, for her to see in me just a little bit of what I saw in her. I remember one night needing to call her at home about some drama club meeting and I nearly wet myself out of fear. I dialed her number and hung up twice beore actually completing the call. And, honestly, I think part of the reason I chose Saint Joe was so that I could be around Ellen just a little while longer. When I latch on to people, it's always a struggle to let them go.

I don't feel the same way about Ellen anymore, and I used to wonder what the hell was wrong with me for tagging along after some girl like a little lost puppy. But now I realize how simple it was: I just wanted to be understood. Ellen never did - at least, not in the way I wanted her to - but she gave me something to look forward to, something to strive for, and that was enough. After all, that's what the people in your life are for, no matter who they are.

A long time ago, I was lonely and unhappy in my solitude. But suddenly, a light shone in my darkness. It was you, my darling! You took my hand, and we floated to the clouds, our love lifting us higher and higher.

[This last line was inspired by the scene in Ghostbusters 2, when the Statue of Liberty walked down the streets of New York playing Jackie Wilson.]

Some of my friends and co-workers may remember me blogging about a little thing call The Chicago Chicks Club (see "My first blog" for details). My next venture? The Bon-Bon Club.

October 11, 1996Friday night

This is to verify the existence of the Bon-Bon Club. To qualify as a member you must meet the following requirements:

1) Have imaginary guys chasing after you. [His name was Jeremiah. Sigh.]2) Must be sitting at home every Saturday night.3) Have an obsession with Meltaways, Twizzlers and other fatty junk foods.4) Don't get any, at all.

Should a fellow member happen to violate any law (especially #4), Hooray!Congratulations! For the club to be void, both members must have a steady boyfriend (at the same time) for at least one month. Meetings are at least once a month.

I was speaking to a friend about the idea of diaries today, and it got me thinking about my own. Here's a sneak into my pre-pubescent years (I have no problems sharing them with you, as I was too young to think about anything more interesting than hating my family and having crushes on boys). Additional commentary is provided in brackets, which are not to be confused with parentheses or quotation marks, since I actually knew how to use them. Spelling errors and poor punctuation remain intact.

Saturday, March 3, 1990

Dear Diary,Hi. I don't think the world of Fred [Savage] anymore. I [heart] Jordan. He's from "New Kids on the Block." Also, when I look at Randy, I feel ... well ... good. I hope his emotions for me (if he has any) are strong, because I have very strong feelings for him.

Things aren't going to good at home. Samantha, Ryan, Mom, Dad, and Geo are sometimes trouble. But I'm used to it. Also, I wish I could see Ricardo more often.

Your writer,Breain

Sunday, May 27, 1990

Dear Diary,I hate my mother and Samantha, my sister. They don't care about me. All my mom worries about is if I don't listen to her.

Also, a long time ago, I dumped Jordan for

JOE MCINTYRE!

He is so cute. I want to marry him!

I saw Ricardo today tossing a ball. When I passed, he called me a Brain. If I was such a brain, I wouldn't have all these problems.

Breain

Wednesday, May 30, 1990

Dear Diary,Today was the Fun in the Sun. There was lots to do, but most of the time, all I did was look, and follow,

Randy Lee Wooten

He's not a new name, Diary. Well, I gotta go. Bye.

Breain

Thursday, May 16, 1991

Dear Diary,I'm in love with a boy named Scott Ramos. This is what I know.

My only contact is Karen. Wish me luck. This guy is mine...at least, I hope so. Randy and Jason were fantasys. Reality came to me, and it came in the form of Scott Ramos.

[Heart]Breain

Sunday, June 2, 1991

Dear Diary,Scott was a mistake. But this guy isn't. (Hopefully.) I dream about him, daydream about him. I can't get him out of my mind. He's called Church Boy (C.B.) because I don't know his name.

I know this is brief, but soon all will be revealed. Soon, I repeat.

Breain

Monday, August 19, 1991

Dear Diary,Hi. How are you? I'm fine. Well, that's exaggerated. I feel rotten. Probably look rotten, too. Because I didn't wash the table right, Dad (who else?) blows up at me! "The only things you want to remember are from your books. That's gonna change!" So he made me get out my 3 collections, and put them on the kitchen table. Then he put them in a garbage bag. He (Dad) said he could make a bundle giving them to the thrift store, 10 cents a book. I hate my Dad the [insert nasty expletive]. Here's why.

1.) He took my books away.2.) He's giving them away.3.) He thinks "SWEET VALLEY HIGH" has sex in it, when he took a magazine and gave a gave a woman a 2 penises.

But 1 of the biggest reasons is that, like tons of other people, he thinks all I care about is reading, when the truth is, I have lots of interests. Here there are: (In no order)

The other reason is that parents are mad because their kids read too little, but mine are mad because I read too much I'll hate my dad forever. Here my signature for that declaration of independence and to close my entry. Bye!

June 07, 2004

Ever since last week's fiction class, my brain has been swirling with the possibilities that writers have in this world and the opportunities I have to become a better one. I've just registered for the Midwest Writers Workshop at Ball State University at the end of July and signed up to for a subscription to Poets and Writers magazine. I also plan on joining the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) as soon as the financial burdens of paying for my wisdom teeth and workshop accomodations are done. I'm not saying that these things will guarantee growth, but they'll definitely provide motivation for it. They'll also give me a wider range of choices when I'm ready to look for a new job.

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to write. My first story in the second grade spun a complex and thought-provoking plot involving two friends and their quest to quench their thirst for...CANDY! During the height of my horror-flick obsession, I penned two scary stories, even casting my friends as the characters for one of them. My fiction "masterpiece" was written when I was a teenager - the ultimate baby's mama drama. I remember coming home and holing up in my room for hours, blasting my cassette tapes while I wrote in the notebooks I was supposed to be using for school. Passion is so easy to sustain when you're a child. You don't know what it means yet to make excuses. What you want to do, you do.

When I think about having children of my own someday, I want most for them to find their own special talent, their own passion, and run with it, whether it's writing, dance, art, stamp collecting, whatever. And I want to help them do that. What good is having higher education and a good-paying job if you can't help your kids make their dreams come true? My parents did that for me - they read my stories, attended my contests, and gave me the confidence to keep pursuing what I loved. It's the least I can do for my own.

June 04, 2004

Well, it's done. My spring quarter at DePaul is officially over. I have to say, I was a little sad at the end of my Screenwriting class last night. There were a lot of fun people I would've liked to have known better. Maybe our paths will meet up again in future classes, but maybe they won't. So, like I said, I was sad.

Then, on the drive from Chicago back to Rensselaer early this morning, I popped in some of my favorite nineties tunes to keep me awake, which got me thinking about my school years as a child. Instead of my last days, though, I focused on my first.

Every year, going back to school was a big deal. Because my family was a large one, we didn't have a ton of money for brand-name sneakers, jeans, accessories, and the like. I can remember the day before my first day of fifth grade, resorting to my mother's closet to find something hip to wear and feeling sad because I knew she needed new clothes just as badly as me. I ended up donning a hot pink t-shirt and rose-patterned short pants (not fashionable enough to be known as capris) with her best pair of white Keds. As my classmates showed up in Nikes and the latest trend in jeans, I was so embarassed. I shouldn't have been, but I was.

In middle school, it only got worse. Fashions changed almost monthly; my wardrobe did not. At one point in seventh grade, wearing shirts with athletic teams' names on them were all the rage. I couldn't get one until almost three months later, when the hype was long over (Charlotte Hornets - I knew nothing about the team except that I liked their mascot). At that point, I shouldn't have wasted the money, but sometimes having something late is better than never having it at all.

Sometimes I feel sad (apparently my word of the day) about moving into the future and away from my past. But it's those kind of memories that turn my sadness into relief. I was always so eager for approval, so wanting to be liked by others. I suppose there's still some of that in me today. But now I know when to say "Screw you, to hell what you think," and that makes me happy, too.

Chew on This

"Every day brings a choice: to practice stress or to practice peace."
- Joan Borysenko
"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing."
- Abraham Lincoln
"Everything should be made as simple as possible, but not simpler."
- Albert Einstein